Unearthed
by aujourd'hui
Summary: "You want to know what I think? I think this is a waste of time and that you should leave. I don't know what President Picquery told you, but I don't need therapy."
1. Chapter One

**Author's note: Hello! I just wanted to say that I'm super duper excited to be sharing this lil' story with you all, I watched FBAWTFT on the plane like two days ago and I just** _ **knew**_ **I had to write something to satisfy my hunger for more (Graves lol). Hope you enjoy it and please leave a review!**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter One**

 **i.**

 _December 13_ _th_ _, 1926_

"For the last time, Graves, this is non-negotiable."

Sitting in the hard wooden chair, with the bright ceiling lights spilling into his lap and the humid New York stench still lingering on his lapel, Percival Graves couldn't help but feel a familiar helplessness sinking in.

He cleared his throat. "If I may, Madame President—"

"If I may, Mr. Graves," Seraphina Picquery retorted, the beads in her headscarf glinting as she tilted her head, "you've been subjected to a cruel torment by a dangerous wizard. You need to be evaluated before I send you back into the field."

"I told the Healers, I'm _fine_ —"

"Yes, but this is not a matter of the body. I'm speaking of your _mind_. It's standard protocol to monitor an individual after a traumatic situation like yours."

Percival could barely contain his frustration. "My mind is intact. It would take a lot more than what Grindelwald did to break me."

The corner of Picquery's lips twitched ever so slightly. "That may be so," she said slowly, clasping her hands over her desk. "However, I cannot make exceptions simply because of who you are."

"I understand," Percival replied evenly, "but in the many, _many_ years of service I've provided, have I ever let you down?"

"Recent events have been unprecedented. You have never been taken hostage, and it has barely been a week since we found you."

"With all due respect, I'm fit to carry on."

"You need to take the appropriate measures."

"I don't need others making decisions for me."

"Enough!" Picquery's dark eyes flared all of a sudden, and Percival stiffened in his chair. "I will not allow you to endanger the lives of our people simply because of your stubbornness, Mr. Graves! You will meet with your designated assessor twice a week for a month, and you will _not_ carry out any fieldwork until further notice. Is that understood?"

"I—"

"Is – that – _understood?"_

Percival seemed to struggle with himself for a moment or two before he answered. "Yes, Madame President."

A curt nod. "Good. That is all for today."

Standing up and straightening his tie, Percival marched across the cold stone floor and shut the door quietly behind him.

 **ii.**

 _December 15_ _th_ _, 1926_

Fernadette Holloway was nervous.

It wasn't often that she made the trip to the Woolworth Building. Many of her patients preferred the outskirts of New York City, where one could find a little peace of mind and quiet. Her subject today, however, was very much a city man, and very much renowned for his intimidating persona. And although Fern was used to dealing with difficult people, she had a feeling today was not going to go as smoothly as she would've liked.

"No matter," she muttered to herself, approaching the revolving glass doors. "S'just another job."

 _A_ well-paying _job._

The imposing monument of the Salem Witch Trials sent a shiver down Fern's spine. The MACUSA headquarters breathed history and grandeur, with the ticking of intricate devices and gleaming phoenix statues. Fern took a moment to take it all in before the elevator doors slid open and she was herded inside.

After a long and crowded ride, the doors finally opened at her floor. Fern found herself in a long corridor, with black walls and floors that shone under the white lights. Already Fern felt an uneasy foreboding, as though she were about to encounter something menacing in this place. She swallowed her discomfort as she set off, heels clicking sharply. It didn't take long to locate Grave's office, guarded by a black door with a shining silver knob and knocker to boot.

"Here we go," she breathed, tucking a dark strand behind one ear and smoothing down her blouse (she really should've spent a bit longer ironing the damn thing). She lifted the heavy silver knocker and let it fall before taking a step back, a tense smile stretched over her face.

A moment passed. There was no indication of movement within the room. Hesitant, Fern tried again, bracing against the loud knock and the looks she was beginning to draw. This time, she stood there waiting for what felt like a minute, but still she heard nothing.

"Okay. You're not here," she muttered, folding her arms and looking around. Behind her stood rows and rows of wooden desks—each piled high with case files, quills and memos—accompanied by a wizard or witch displaying varying degrees of stress.

Fern approached the nearest desk. "Excuse me," she asked the young woman, who looked startled to be singled out, "would you happen to know where Mr. Graves is?"

"He's at a meeting," the Auror replied hastily, flicking her wand and reducing an old memo to ashes. "Law Enforcement stuff, bet it might take a while."

"Great, thank you," Fern said with a small sigh, returning to her post by his door and wondering how long it would take until the Director of Magical Security decided to show his face.

 **iii.**

"Cogwick, consider this a warning. If you and your community continue to jeopardise the Statute of Secrecy, we will have to take action."

The elder goblin considered him for a moment with untrusting eyes. The two were sitting opposite each other in a quieter section of the entrance hall. The sunlight shone between them from high-set windows.

"We do not abide by your Wizarding laws," the creature replied in a raspy voice.

"And yet you want our protection," Graves stated calmly, leaning forward in his armchair. "I understand that your rituals are important, but this is the third time a No-Maj has had to be Obliviated on your territory. I need that to stop."

Long, pointed fingers displaying a large amulet ring tapped across the armrest. "It is difficult, controlling these No-Majs."

"Which makes my job very important."

The goblin's devious eyes focused on him. "It is even harder controlling wizards, wouldn't you say, Mr. Graves?" he continued, as though Percival had not replied.

Percival forced a face of disregard. "Believe me, it's nothing I can't handle."

"Rumour has it you were taken hostage for quite some time," the old goblin went on brashly, a leer revealing straight, sharp teeth. "Surprising. One would think that such a highly appointed Auror would be skilled in self-defence."

"I did not ask you here to goad me, Cogwick," Percival bit back, standing up. "This meeting is over."

"Your temper has worsened," Cogwick commented with a dry chuckle; he too slid from his armchair. "I must say, though, I am impressed you did not take time off."

"I'm a busy man, now do I have your word to stay out of trouble or not?"

Cogwick inclined his domed head ever so slightly. "We will see." And without so much as a gesture of goodbye, Cogwick turned and trotted down the steps toward the golden revolving doors.

Percival watched the goblin go with ill-nature brewing in his chest. He could think of at least a hundred more preferable endings to their meeting, yet somehow he had let the goblin get the better of him. Not surprising, perhaps. He'd always found difficulty intimidating their kind.

 _No matter,_ he told himself, running a hand over his gelled hair and returning to the elevators. There was still work to be done. His days were notoriously busy, what with mentoring the Aurors, controlling the community's exposure levels and advising Picquery's team. Percival rarely had a moment to himself. Usually he could manage it all with an iron fist, but something was off in the air lately. He knew it stemmed from the hidden looks and whispers, the unspoken sentiments and pity following him wherever he went.

All alone in the elevator, Percival sighed, the sound spent and agitated.

 _No matter._

He was due for an update from one of his senior Aurors. However, when he rounded the corner and strode toward his office, it was not Geoffrey standing by his door but a young woman in a camel-coloured coat. Her blue eyes were focused on the arched ceiling, studying the historical paintings and inscriptions between the many pillars.

"Can I help you?" His voice came out more demanding than he'd intended.

The stranger jumped, brushing away a strand of black hair. "Mr. Graves," she blurted, fumbling forward and offering him her hand. "I'm Fernadette Holloway. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Do you have an appointment?" he asked, shaking her hand after a second's reluctance.

She seemed confused. "Er, yes, sir. President Picquery told me we'd be meeting every Wednesday and Friday at two o'clock."

The clock above their heads read two forty-three.

Monday's meeting seemed to come back to him through a fog. "Ah, yes," he said, surveying her with hard eyes. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and there was a kind yet nervous air about her. "You're the Healer."

"Well, not quite," she corrected, "I work in a specialised division at the hospital. It's not so much potions and magic but more about asking the right questions and talking about…"

Holloway's voice quavered to a stop under Percival's cold gaze. She gulped. "Should I come back another time?" she inquired hesitantly, when he did not speak.

Percival considered it. In all honesty, he would've liked nothing better than the Healer (or 'not quite' Healer) to leave him to the comforting solitude of his office. And yet if he missed this session, he knew Picquery would find out about it at some point and come breathing down his neck like an angry mother dragon.

"No need for that," Percival remarked, pushing open his door and beckoning her in. "Let's get this over with."

 **iv.**

Fern sat in front of Graves' desk as he closed the door and walked across the room slowly. It was the first time she'd seen him in person. He was paler than she'd imagined, and there were circles under his eyes that had been absent in the press photos. Nevertheless, he was immaculately dressed, from the styling of his hair down to the shine of his shoes.

"So," Graves started, seating himself at his leather chair and running a hand over his tailored waistcoast, "what do I have to do to pass this…assessment?"

"There's no manual on how to pass, Mr. Graves," Fern replied with a small smile, reaching into her bag for a quill and notepad. "I'm simply here to make sure you're all right after your recent experience. I'll be asking you some questions, and all I need you to do is tell me what you think, how you feel."

"You don't suppose it'd be easier to just read my mind, would you?" Graves replied sarcastically, reclining back. His mannerisms were telling of a man who was used to having his questions answered promptly.

"It might be, Mr. Graves, but my methods don't involve Legilimency or Veritasium. The No-Majs call it psychology. I'm just here to listen."

"And what makes you qualified to judge whether I'm sane or not?"

"Rest assured, I am."

Graves looked as if he were having second thoughts about the whole affair, perhaps due to the curtness of her last answer. His brow was furrowed as if dubious, and his hand was stroking his tie restlessly. It was plain as day that he didn't want her there. Fern had not spent long in his presence, but already she was starting to feel the infamous chill that people associated with Percival Graves.

"Very well," he said at long last, with a flippant wave of his hand. "Begin."

Fern positioned her quill. "Mr. Graves, why don't you talk me through the events leading up to your capture by Gellert Grindelwald?"

A scowl was quick to form on the man's face. "I've been through all this with the court."

"Yes, I've read the file. I'm well aware of the details. But I'd like you to tell me how you _felt_ in the moment. What were you thinking, and what do you think of it now?"

"You want to know what I think as of now?"

Fern nodded eagerly.

"I think this is a waste of time and that you should leave. I don't know what President Picquery told you, but I don't need therapy."

 _Well, that went south real quick._ A tiny part of Fern wanted to defend herself, but professionalism, curiosity and many years of training caught hold of her tongue. He was not the first to snipe at her, after all. So Fern recomposed herself, sat up straight and hitched a patient smile onto her face before trying again.

It was going to be an interesting few weeks.


	2. Chapter Two

**Author's note: Thank you so, so much for all your feedback! I hope you enjoy this chapter. And please review! it really helps motivate my sorry butt c':**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Two**

 **i.**

 _December 15_ _th_ _, 1926_

The smell of a rich and mouth-watering beef casserole came wafting from their tiny kitchen. Fern sighed dreamily as she laid the dining table. "I wish I was half as good a cook as you are, Charlie," she called over her shoulder.

Her blonde flatmate grinned and Levitated the casserole pan into the room. "I'm happy to teach you, Fernie, but you never ask."

Fern chuckled. "No, I don't. Remember your birthday?"

"Oh Merlin. I'd never had a salty cake in my whole life until that fateful day. How does one even do such a thing?"

"Beats me." Fern shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. "Magic?"

The two sat down and happily ate without speaking for a while. Behind them, propped on a square coffee table, a record player was breezing through a soft jazz item; the singer's husky tones and the amber lamplight formed a warm, homely cocoon around them. They were oblivious to the cold outside, where December was in full swing and snow threatened to fall at any moment.

"So how was your day?" Fern asked amid the gentle tinkling of cutlery. "Anything interesting?"

Charlotte Westenberg worked through her mouthful of food before answering. "We had a man come in with a severe allergic reaction to Fanged Geranium. He was throwing up all over the place."

"Poor guy."

"You're lucky you weren't there for the smell; like a cow carcass, or a blocked toilet. I mean geez, he really _reeked_ ," Charlie remarked, her round face scrunching up before noticing Fern's expression. "Sorry. Eating."

"You've always got such good stories coming out your department."

Charlie smirked. "Whereas you can't spill the beans. Any of 'em."

Confidentiality laws meant Fern could rarely talk about her work outside the office. "No, and even if I weren't bound by law, I wouldn't. It's not right."

"I'm sure you're bursting with juicy stories, though," Charlie said, wagging her eyebrows. "Care to share?"

Fern's eyes widened. "Charlie!"

"Just don't use any names! I wouldn't be the wiser."

"I don't approve of you sometimes, Westenberg."

"Fine," Charlie exhaled, golden curls bouncing as she rolled her eyes. "Tell me how your day went then, and don't forget to leave out all the good bits. You know, like you always do."

Fern snorted but didn't reply. She thought back to that afternoon, remembering the expression of bored impatience on Graves' regal features, and how she'd walked out of that office fifteen minutes later having learnt near nothing about the man.

She shrugged. "Nothing new. Just your regular grumpy Joe. I think this one's gonna take some time to crack."

Charlie patted her on the hand. "Attagirl. Coax that man out of his shell."

"I'll certainly give it my best."

 **ii.**

 _December 17_ _th_ _, 1926_

"Consider the scenario. A wanted wizard is feet from you. You've been hunting him for weeks, months. He's guilty of horrible crimes. You know you can take him; he'll put up a fight, but ultimately you'll win. However, your teammate is down. They've been Cursed, and you don't know how long they have left until you've got to take them to emergency care. What do you do? What are your options?"

The lecture theatre was silent. The junior Aurors were still, eyes alert, quills hovering (some quite literally) at the ready. But none of them spoke, and Graves knew why. They were afraid of being wrong. _That's the problem with this generation,_ he thought, waiting for an answer, _no damn backbone._

"No one? Really? I'm not impressed. You have to be able to think on your feet out there. A split second's all you got to conquer insecurity and make a decision," he told them, his voice slow and even but projecting clearly throughout the hall.

Nobody spoke.

Then: "Personally, I'd try to land a Tracking Charm, then send for back-up, then take my colleague to seek the appropriate medical attention as soon as possible."

That voice was enough to make Percival's blood curdle these days. Forcing a polite smile on his face, he turned to find Picquery standing between the double doors to his right.

"Madame President," Percival greeted, and a few students craned their necks to catch a glimpse of her. "A fine answer."

"A simple answer, one I would've expected some of _you_ to have offered instead," Picquery added, casting a stern eye on the nearest students, who quickly averted their gaze.

"I agree. If you aren't brave enough to tell me what you'd do in this sort of situation, what makes you think you'll have the guts to face a murderer in the flesh?" Percival speculated grimly. "The classroom is where you make mistakes, not out there. Class dismissed."

One by one, his students stood up to leave, the familiar drone of their meaningless conversations reaching him from the stands.

"Not the most responsive class I've seen," Picquery commented, joining him at the podium and frowning. "Perhaps they take after their teacher."

Percival remained silent, under the pretence of gathering up his things.

"I received Holloway's feedback report from Wednesday."

"Oh, joy."

"She said you were 'uncooperative', 'brooding' and that your 'mind was evidently elsewhere'."

"A load of surprise."

"Don't be smart with me," Picquery replied smoothly. "You do realise she's the one making your recommendation?"

"Forgive me, Madame President, but I simply don't see how _chattiness_ has anything to do with my being Director of Magical Security."

"We all know you keep to yourself, Mr. Graves. But I can't have you harbouring dangerous and unstable thoughts. Not at the expense of others."

Percival said nothing.

"I expect you to make more of an effort this afternoon," Picquery said coolly, with a tone of finality. She turned on her heel, leaving Percival alone and feeling mutinous at the podium. "Good day."

 **iii.**

"I wasn't aware you were reporting directly to the President."

Fern pretended not to notice the accusatory tone. "Yes, I am," Fern stated simply, following Graves into his spacious office.

"You were very honest in your latest report," he continued, settling back into his leather chair with the ease of a prince.

"One has to be in this profession."

He ignored her. "Sit."

She did.

Graves looked even more irritated than the last time they'd met. _At least he was on time today,_ she mused, taking in the set of his jaw and the pronounced crease between his eyebrows. Despite his outward annoyance, he still managed to look domineering and—dared she acknowledge it—handsome. Apparently, it was a thought shared by others; the New York Ghost had named him one of the Top 10 Most Handsome MACUSA Employees five years in a row.

Fern wondered if he kept up-to-date with that sort of thing.

"How are you today, Mr. Graves?" she asked gently, taking out her quill and notepad again. Admittedly, she had been quite outright about the kidnapping in their first session. She'd thought a man like Graves would've appreciated it: cut the crap, straight to the point. But Graves clearly wasn't used to talking about his feelings openly; a change in tact was needed. This time, she was going to tiptoe her way slowly toward the dreaded subject matter, hoping against hope that he would loosen up sooner or later.

Graves frowned. "What is this now, small talk?"

"Just trying to break the ice."

A hand to his hairline. "I'm fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"You look stressed."

He paused. "Yes, quite."

Fern jotted it down, both his words and the pause. "Why are you feeling stressed, Mr. Graves?"

A long exhale. "Why do you think? Because I'm a busy man, and because the President is making a mistake. I should be out there catching Grindelwald's followers, protecting our kind, doing my job. But here I am, confined to my office like a schoolboy and talking to you, Miss Holloway. And as you've probably figured out, I don't particularly enjoy talking."

He had a certain way with words, Fern noticed. He took his time with them, pausing here and there to make a point or jab or accusation. It was as if every syllable had been carefully crafted and therefore deserved its own space, brought to life by his low, unhurried voice.

"Are you worried I won't make the recommendation you'd like?" she asked, careful to sound concerned instead of taunting.

"It doesn't worry me. It irks me."

"Then your stress purely stems from the fact that you feel you could be better used."

"Yes, correct."

Fern made a note before looking back up. "You teach, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel responsible for your students?"

Graves sighed exasperatedly. "You are asking me very redundant questions, Miss Holloway."

"My point is, don't you think that's the reason President Picquery would want to evaluate you?"

Graves looked like he was about to roll his eyes. "Perhaps."

"Why perhaps?"

"I don't like to think about my predicament, to be frank."

"Mr. Graves, try and put yourself in the President's shoes." She gave him a wry smile. "I know these aren't the most enjoyable hours of your week, but there is certainly a valid reason for them. And I'd like to hear your thoughts on the matter. Please."

Graves took a long time to answer. He was running his index finger over one brow, back and forth, back and forth in a discreet massage. Like he was getting a headache just sitting there, putting up with her probing. Fern took the time to study him more closely: the tiny scorpions on his collar, the whispers of grey in his hair, the crisp white shirt.

"Mr. Graves?"

"Well, upon reflection, it's rather clear," Graves said at last, deep brown eyes boring into hers. "The President no longer seems to trust me."

 **iv.**

Percival hated Fridays.

He never liked going home. There was nothing to do there; no pressing crises to be resolved, no misguided Aurors needing his leadership. It was just him and his spacious New York townhouse, with its huge looming windows, antique décor and ominous silence. It had cost a small fortune to attain and redecorate to his tastes, and yet the three-storied home served only as a place to sleep at night, nothing more.

As it was, Percival was still at his desk working. The tall grandfather clock (a family heirloom, passed down through the generations) against the wall read nine-fifty. No doubt most—if not all—of the MACUSA employees had retired home for the evening. Everyone wanted to make a head start on their weekends.

Percival hated Fridays.

The manuscript he was reading blurred beneath his eyes. He blinked rapidly, running a hand over his hair. His eyes flickered shut of their own accord.

 _Just for a minute._

In the newfound darkness, his thoughts began to drift. Porpentina Goldstein had been promoted to her former position as Auror, a reward for her recent efforts assisting MACUSA in Grindelwald's capture. Percival remembered stopping by her desk the other day to congratulate her. He was quite fond of Tina; she was steadfast on her feet and, more importantly, loyal to no end. She saw a side of him not many witnessed.

The look in her eyes when he'd approached…

It had confused him at first: the sharp flash of fear, the involuntary recoil. Tina had done her best to hide it, but the damage had already been done. Percival had seen, and what should have been a warm moment between them had ended up awkward and tense.

He didn't blame her. His was the face that had sentenced her to death. She'd never forget that, he supposed, even if she knew deep down that it had not been him.

The eternal conflict: logic or instinct, the mind or the heart.

Percival liked to think he was a man of reason (and yet here he was, hiding in his office, afraid to face the memories awaiting him at home). He found people who threw caution to the wind and followed their hearts extremely tiring. People like Holloway, for instance.

"Wouldn't you love to hear about Tina," he murmured dryly.

No one replied.

Percival stayed in the same position for a while longer (hand over his eyes, shoulders hunched) before he got back to work. It wasn't until some late hour past midnight that he stood up, put on his coat and silently left.


	3. Chapter Three

**Author's note: The plot thickens in this chapter –dramatic music– Please enjoy and review! c:**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Three**

 **i.**

 _December 20_ _th_ _, 1926_

The morning was cold and young. Percival Graves stepped through the front door and halted in the weak, grey sunlight. It was snowing: gentle, intricate snowflakes twirling in slow spirals towards the earth. A sight that somehow stole his attention for a while before he locked the door and stepped down onto the hard pavement.

It would've been faster to Disapparate. The streets were still fairly deserted at this hour, so it would've been a safe option. But Percival always made the conscious decision to walk. It was his token moment to think (or not to, depending on the day). Nobody would bother him as he made his way through the city; he blended in well with the No-Majs, with his long, billowing coat and navy blue scarf.

The subtle scowl certainly helped, too.

He walked for fifteen minutes down his usual route, heading south. When he reached the main intersection, however, instead of taking a left towards Broadway, he made a straight and continued onwards. His well-trained eyes scanned the streets through the thin flecks of white. Nobody he recognised was in sight.

Rounding a corner, he strode down a smaller street, filled with family-owned restaurants and cafes. And there it was: a coffee shop squashed into the corner of a brick building that, under the winter sun, looked the colour of washed out blood.

The shop itself housed several businessmen waiting for their morning pick-me-up. Their suits looked out of place amongst the fake plants and wooden panels. Percival ordered a double espresso and sat by the window, sipping slowly whilst he waited.

Soon enough, Booker Pinney appeared at the doorway. The man caught Percival's eye and made a beeline straight to his table.

"Thank you for meeting me, sir," Booker greeted, pulling out a chair. "I hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience, it being so early and all."

Handpicked by Percival himself, Booker was his right-hand man, responsible for supervising the operation of all Auror activity. He was in his early thirties, with brown hair swept away from his forehead and intelligent grey eyes. For whatever reason, those same grey eyes seemed to be brimming with a nervous energy as he sat down opposite him.

"It's no trouble at all," Percival replied evenly. "I'm just curious as to why you wanted to meet here of all places."

"I didn't want anyone to eavesdrop."

"My office would've been sufficient."

"Yes, but I didn't want anyone to suspect."

"Suspect what, exactly?"

Booker took a deep breath before answering. "Mr. Graves, I'm afraid there is a mole in the department."

It took a second for the sentence to sink in.

 _There is a mole in the department._

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

"I have strong evidence to believe your capture was aided by someone on the inside," Booker continued, when Percival remained silent. "One of our men or women was spying for Grindelwald, gathering intel before he took action, sir."

"What is this evidence you speak of?"

"It came from Grindelwald himself. I was interrogating him as you instructed, and when I asked how he came about to impersonate the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, he told me these exact words: 'My followers stray amongst you, closer than you might think.'"

"Is that all?"

"We also analysed the crate he kept you in, sir. It had traces of magic that originated a few days prior to the ambush. But it came from a different source to Grindelwald's wand."

"An accomplice."

"That is the theory, yes."

Percival was quiet for a long time. There was a static buzzing in his ears. His mind was reeling, and yet he was determined to remain calm on the outside. He couldn't let the sudden flare of betrayal in his stomach consume him.

 _There is a mole._

He couldn't. Not yet.

"I want your personal case file on my desk by tomorrow morning," Percival said at last. "And Booker, I want this to remain between you and me until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Graves."

With a curt nod, Percival stood up and walked out into the cold. His coffee was still warm on the table.

 **ii.**

 _December 22_ _nd_ _, 1926_

"Are you sleeping enough, Mr. Graves?"

The question seemed to take him by surprise, and that in turn surprised Fern. Couldn't he see the purplish hue that was starting to spread beneath his eyes? Or was he just so busy that he didn't even have the time to glance at himself in the mirror? The thought caused a small twinge of sympathy.

"I thought you were a therapist, Miss Holloway," Graves replied, arching an eyebrow. "Not a Healer."

"I don't have to be a Healer to know you're tired."

"Mm." A hum of agreement. Or indifference.

Fern jotted it down.

It was Wednesday, their third meeting, and Fern couldn't be sure if they were making any real progress. By now she had grown somewhat accustomed to the intimidating aura surrounding Graves, though the occasional glare was all it took to bring the old fear back again. It was a game of push and pull: how much she dared to push him for an answer, and how much he pulled away within his walls, which were no doubt filled with espionage and resentment.

Nevertheless, he was speaking more now, in that unrushed, self-indulgent manner. It occurred to her that maybe that was how all interrogators behaved in order to belittle the enemy. Maybe it was just a habit he'd picked up, for better or for worse, she'd yet to decide.

"Can you tell me how long you were held captive for?" Fern asked.

"Fifteen days."

"And did that feel like a long time to you, Mr. Graves?"

His face was impossible to read, though she was sure he was reliving it in some dark corner of his mind. She'd seen the descriptions, from the day they had found him:

 _Two broken ribs. Cuts to the face and torso._

 _Chunks of hair missing._

 _Significant weight loss._

 _Severe dehydration._

"Yes, it did," Graves replied calmly.

"How did you get through it?"

"Resilience, I suppose," he said, watching his own finger tracing along the edge of his desk. "The refusal to bow down to adversity."

"Did you sleep?"

"Scarcely."

"And are you finding that you still have trouble sleeping?"

"Perhaps," Graves replied slowly, brows knitted again as he looked up. "What does it matter to you, Miss Holloway?"

"Your well-being is important to me. I care about all my patients. Even you, Mr. Graves, though you may find that hard to believe," she added, and almost immediately regretted it.

 _Too much?_

There was a long pause in which neither of them looked away. Fern thought he might throw her out any moment. Then Graves did something she'd never seen him do before: he smirked.

 **iii.**

 _December 23_ _rd_ _, 1926_

"Oh sweetheart, it's so good to see you!"

"Mom, stop it," Fern laughed as she stepped through the narrow front door, letting her mother pull her into a crushing hug.

"Come in, come in! Let me get that for you." The older woman waved her wand and caused Fern's suitcase to hover behind them. They shut the door against the darkness outside and made their way up a staircase to her parents' apartment. Flat 2B.

Her mother unlocked the door and led them into a square living room. It looked just the same as Fern remembered: thick burgundy carpet, cream wallpaper and large plush couches surrounding a squat coffee table. The curtains were thrown open, revealing a street busy with Christmas lights and decorations. Their family Christmas tree stood at attention in one corner, the gold and silver baubles singing various holiday tunes in squeaky voices.

"You've made it just in time for dinner," a deep voice called from the adjoined kitchen, and Fern's father appeared before them, a tall and open man in his mid-fifties who didn't look like he had many things to hide.

"Hi Dad," Fern greeted, setting her bag down and rushing over to hug him. She tried not to notice the abundance of white in his hair. "How're you doing? How's the shop?"

"All good, all good. The shop's running as per usual, though we've got an exciting meeting with a silk trader from China next week. If I play this right, I think we could get a real bargain and make some really special dress robes."

"Want me to psycho-analyse him for you first?" Fern inquired, grinning cheekily as she sat at the long dining table.

Her father merely chuckled and returned to the stove, the salt and peppershakers waiting for him in mid-air.

"How are _you,_ sweetie?" her mother asked anxiously, sliding into the seat opposite her. "I hope they haven't been overworking you at the hospital."

"I'm fine, Mom," Fern insisted. It was a little ritual: her mother agonising over her workload despite Fern repeatedly stating that she worked normal hours and was rarely short on sleep.

It wasn't long until Fern's father declared dinner was ready. Fern got up to help set up the table, and for some reason her thoughts wandered to Graves. She'd forgotten to wish him Merry Christmas. They wouldn't meet again until after the weekend; Friday was a public holiday.

No matter. He would probably prefer it that way.

"Let's eat," her mother said, breaking her from her reverie.

Fern smiled and tucked in, leaving her thoughts for now.

 **iv.**

Every year, one of MACUSA's largest conference halls was converted into an extravagant ballroom for the annual Christmas Gala. It was more of an event for networking than celebration, nevertheless people who talked about it afterwards always spoke of it fondly.

Percival arrived late, as always. He was dressed in a three-piece suit that was subtly more expensive than his usual. The tie had been swapped for a bowtie.

The overhead ceiling rose high over their heads, allowing room for sparkling chandeliers to hang and bring light to the airy space. A live band was playing in the centre of the room, their instruments magically amplified to allow their music to reach all ears. Some guests were dancing, whilst others were chatting in tightknit groups, hands gesticulating and laughter plentiful.

He meandered his way through the crowd, pausing here or there to nod or say a quick hello. He wasn't in the mood to socialise tonight, but it would've looked odd if Picquery's second-in-command didn't show up to such a prestigious event. There were people tonight whose sole reason for coming was to catch a glimpse of his face.

So many people. So many faces.

 _Someone here betrayed you,_ a voice whispered in his head, catching him off guard. _Who is it? Who_ —

Percival felt a sudden surge of paranoia. His eyes scanned the multitudes of wizards and witches, as though attempting to seek out the traitor right there and then. _Where are you?_ The air was becoming stiff and stale, the room spinning around him, and just as he thought he might go mad, a welcome interruption abruptly appeared by his side.

"Are you all right, Mr. Graves?" Tina asked, looking worried. She was in a sequin dress that draped effortlessly down her shoulders.

"Miss Goldstein," he replied after a shallow breath, putting a hand to his forehead. He was glad to see that there was no fear in her face this time. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just been a long day." He recomposed himself. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, sir."

"Geoffrey told me you're settling back in nicely."

"Yes, it's been so great working with the others again," Tina sighed, looking over her shoulder at a small group of Aurors. They were talking animatedly, big smiles all around. One of them caught sight of Tina and waved.

"You should go join them," Percival said, nodding his head in their direction.

"I had something to say to you, sir," Tina replied, facing round again. Her expression was regretful. "I…I'd like to apologise for last week. You came to congratulate me, and I know I must've looked so _terrified_ when I saw you. I shouldn't have—it was so rude of me."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he told her as she ducked her head in shame. "Tina, listen to me. You've done nothing wrong. If I were in your shoes, I would've felt the same." He paused. "You're a smart Auror. I trust that over time things will go back to the way they were."

Tina took in his words, apparently surprised. He could almost see the way her thoughts were battling with each other. Eventually, she looked back up and beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Graves," she said gently, putting a hand on his arm briefly. "I hope you enjoy the gala."

"And you."

He watched her join her colleagues. It was a strange feeling, knowing that someone cared about him. He thought of yesterday's meeting, of what had been said.

 _I believe you, Holloway._

Percival picked up a champagne glass and swallowed his worries whole.


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's note: Thank you once again for all your support and interest in this story! Here's another chapter, with a little more insight in both Fern's and Graves' lives c:**

 **Warning: This chapter contains mention of suicide. Please read at your own discretion.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Four**

 **i.**

 _December 25_ _th_ _, 1926_

The Graves Mansion was an imposing structure located in the suburbs. Percival Apparated outside the iron wrought gates that guarded the home beyond. It was evening. A thin layer of snow blanketed the pavement and fir trees. He waved his wand in a complex pattern—the ancient incantation repeating in his mind—and the gates swung open to receive him.

Percival strode up the driveway leading to a roundabout, which was complete with a shimmering water fountain. He had walked this path many times before, and every single time there was the same tightening in his chest, the same sense of catastrophe, as though he were entering a different pressure system.

 _The eye of a hurricane._

The front door was wide and painted a glossy black. Percival knocked three times and waited. He heard familiar footsteps, and sure enough, the hardened face of Willard Graves appeared in the doorway.

"Good evening, Father," Percival said.

"Percival. Welcome home." His father stepped back to allow him in. The large man was in his sixties now, his hair whiter and wispier than ever before. But his posture was as straight as a board, and he walked with the precision of a toy soldier, mechanical and diligent until his very last step.

They passed through the wide hallway and into the reception room where his mother was waiting. She was also in her sixties, but age had not treated her as kindly as her husband. Her body looked fragile and lost against the vintage cushions she was leaning against.

"Mother." Percival bent to his knees and kissed her wrinkled hand.

"You're back," she said coldly as he stood back up. "After so long."

"I've been busy at the Congress, Mother," Percival replied. "I came to wish you Merry Christmas."

His father's broad figure stepped closer. "You're the Director of Magical Security. Surely you can let the underlings do the heavy lifting."

"I'll do so next time."

The walls were lined with old oil paintings of their predecessors. Their eyes bored down into him, silent and oppressing.

"Family must come first, Percival," his father sighed, sitting next to his wife. "We know you are career driven, and we applaud you. But you mustn't forget your duties, child."

"I won't, Father."

But even as he stood before them in the candle-lit room, he couldn't help noticing the sour distaste in his mouth. He felt no connection to these people, no deep bond that should've brought a family together. Instead, there was only a bitter emptiness, the negative space between innocent, beautiful memories.

This was for many reasons, and the one that stood out to him most in that moment—like a blazing neon warning—was the fact that his parents had yet to ask if their son was okay.

And they neglected to do so all evening.

 **ii.**

 _December 29_ _th_ _, 1926_

"Com'on, hurry!" Fern hissed at the elevator as it ventured into the heart of the building. The metal box seemed to sense her distress and continued traveling at its leisurely pace. After an anxious wait, the grilled doors finally parted and Fern trotted down the corridor in a kind of half-jog, the clicking of her heels echoing behind her.

It was two-eighteen when she reached Graves' door. Grabbing the silver knocker, she rapped it once and was relieved to hear a voice inside say, "Enter."

"I'm sorry I'm late," Fern panted, sliding into the room and shutting the door with her back. Graves looked up from his desk, a thin manila file spread open beneath his fingers.

"Apology accepted. What held you?" Graves asked, casually flicking his wand and Vanishing the file.

"There was an emergency situation with another patient," she replied, still out of breath and depositing herself into her designated chair. "I had to go sort it out. Everything's fine now." _Not that you would care, I suppose._

"You're seeing other patients?"

Fern chuckled at this. "What did you think I did when I wasn't with you?"

A shadow of that smirk appeared on his lips. "I just assumed you continued to amble on in life."

"You're not wrong."

"What sort of emergency was it?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you the specifics, Mr. Graves."

He nodded. "We can start, if you'd like," he added, breaking the quiet that had settled over them.

"Of course," Fern exhaled, retrieving quill and notepad. She was amused by their small exchange. It had been unexpectedly light-hearted, like a scene plucked from outside this dreary world of black hallways and brooding men. It had been nice. But that was neither here nor there. She had a job to do. Fern held her quill over her notepad.

Maybe she wanted it to last a bit longer.

"How was your Christmas?"

He scoffed. "Uneventful."

"You didn't celebrate?"

"Do I look like I do?"

There it was: the sarcastic candour, the look in his eyes that sparked a challenge. A subtle reminder that he was indeed a man, and not some stern entity created purely for the protection of wizard-kind.

"No, I don't suppose so."

"Did _you_ celebrate?" Graves asked, throwing her off-guard.

"Me?" she repeated, a little wildly. "Oh, yes, I did. I went home to my parents on Thursday evening and stayed the weekend."

Graves propped his chin on the back of one hand, leaning to one side. "Can I ask you something, Miss Holloway?"

Fern blinked. He was turning the tables. "Of course, Mr. Graves."

"Why did you decide to pursue this career? Why something so…mundane, for lack of a better word."

What was she supposed to say? It was a complicated story, and she didn't want to waste his time, time that was already short on account of her being late. But if she told him this little bit of her life, then maybe he'd learn to let a little part of himself go in return. And that might mean she would be out of his hair sooner, which he would surely prefer, she presumed.

"When I was younger," Fern started, "I thought everything was perfect. I know it sounds cheesy, but I was happy, my parents were happy, I was going to head off to Ilvermony. We were just any ordinary family.

"Then, I started to realise that my parents weren't as happy as I'd thought. Specifically my dad. I don't know what happened. All I can remember is that one day he was himself—cheerful and optimistic—and the next day he was a completely different person. He became like a ghost. And it got worse year by year. They did their best to hide it, like most parents do when something bad happens: they just want to protect their kids."

Fern paused here, wondering if she should go on. She chanced a glance at Graves. He hadn't moved: elbow on the armrest, chin on the back of his hand.

"My dad tried to take his life when I was seventeen. I found him in the bedroom. I got Mom, and we Disapparated to the hospital.

"We were lucky we got there so fast. He was saved from the poison. But there was still that horrible darkness in his mind. And here's the thing: the Healers weren't sure how to treat it. You'd think they'd have some sort of protocol, some procedure to go through, like when you take in a patient with a broken leg or a venom bite. They had nothing for my dad.

"And then we got referred to a specialist clinic. It was unconventional, because of how they drew inspiration from the No-Majs. It was a place where they used psychology and potions to treat people like my dad. Amazingly, before our eyes, he started to recover bit by bit. I was in awe of the so-called 'Hearkens'. They didn't judge like some of the Healers did. You could see it in their faces: what was there to be sad about? He had a steady income, a beautiful wife and daughter. They didn't understand it. Neither did I.

"So I guess that's why I became a Hearken. To understand people like him. I'm proud of my work, Mr. Graves," Fern added, all of a sudden feeling defiant. "I don't find anything mundane about it."

Graves said nothing.

Fern stared back at him, realising after a few seconds that she had barely been breathing. She took a heavy breath and ran both hands through her hair, pushing it away from her face. _Idiot._ Her emotions had gotten the better of her.

The grandfather clock read seven minutes past three. They had overrun. Fern was about to get up and leave when he interrupted her.

"I'm not seeing you again this Friday, am I?"

She froze in her seat. "No, you're not," she replied slowly. "Friday's a public holiday again, for New Year's. Why do you ask?"

Graves stared at her with those clear brown eyes, his face showing hardly any emotion. A harrowing blank slate. And, strangely, as the moment grew longer, she realised that she didn't quite mind looking back at him.

"I hope you have a Happy New Year with your family, Miss Holloway."

 **iii.**

 _November 23_ _rd_ _, 1926_

Percival didn't bother with the lights.

The front door shut behind him, blocking the warm glow of the streetlights outside. Percival hung up his coat with a wave of his wand and moved toward the tall spiral staircase, which led to the second and third floors of his immaculate townhouse. He ascended in darkness, each step groaning imperceptibly under his weight.

He reached the landing on the third floor. All was quiet. The master bedroom door was shut, the way he had left it this morning. He turned the cold brass handle, causing a small click to dent the air, and walked inside. A wide rectangular window let the pale moonlight slip into the silent room. He didn't bother with the lights.

Maybe if he had, he would have seen the man standing there, waiting for him.

"You're home late."

Percival whipped out his wand. Too slow. A white light struck him in the chest, sending him hurtling through space and crashing against his wardrobe. Pain tore through his back as he stumbled on his feet, but he ignored it and brandished his wand.

 _Petrificus Totalus!_

He saw a blur of movement as the spell shot past and missed. His attacker laughed—an eerie, cackling sound—and in the darkness Percival reacted on pure instinct: _Protego!_

A split second later, a jet of red light splintered violently into fractals against his invisible shield. He could feel the force of it reverberating down his arm. The Cruciatus Curse.

"Such reflex," a voice purred. A broad silhouette stood at the other end of the room, but even as he watched, the intruder took a step closer. "Your parents would be proud."

"Show yourself," Percival commanded, strong and steady.

"You do not recognise me? No surprise. You seem to enjoy the dark, Mr. Graves."

The man stepped into the moonlight. The face that stared back was wide and pale and smiling.

Gellert Grindelwald.

Percival gripped his wand tighter. "Why are you here?"

"To play a little game with the world," Grindelwald breathed in enchantment, as though he were speaking of utopia. "To give wizard-kind a little push. Our future belongs in freedom, Mr. Graves. We can't live in the shadows forever, unlike you," he chuckled, taking a few more steps towards him.

"Whatever plans you have," Percival declared, brown eyes furious, "they will fail. I'll stop you with my bare hands if I have to."

"You Americans always liked to talk big." A pause; a moment of curious reconsideration. "You know, Percival, you and I are not so different. We both come from Pure-blood families, we are both powerful wizards of our time, and we both have a deep loathing of the Muggles, or 'No-Majs' as you call them here."

"I would never murder."

"Yet you would allow them to murder _us?"_ Grindelwald retorted, the fire back in his eyes, the fleeting compassion gone. "Surely you remember the Salem Witch Trials. There were similar catastrophes in Europe. Wizards were slaughtered, our children culled to death. There was no humanity on their side, no mercy. So there shall be none on ours." He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. "Centuries ago, we died for who we were. Now, we grovel and hide. I say no more."

And with a whip-like motion, Grindelwald shattered the shield that had stood before him. The shock jolted Percival backwards. Grindelwald closed the distance between them swiftly, making vicious slashing movements. Pain exploded all over Percival's chest; he was being cut open like a slab of meat. Before he knew it, Grindelwald had pinned him against the wall, his hand closing around Percival's neck.

Percival tried to resist, but found that his muscles refused to respond. All he could do was stare back at the ghostly face leaning toward him, the wizard's wicked features burning into his retinas. His wand was ripped from his useless hand.

"Gondulphus Graves," Grindelwald whispered, his breath lingering on Percival's skin. "One of America's very first Aurors."

Percival was flung ruthlessly to the ground, where he lay motionless and still.

Grindelwald leered over him. The stolen wand was pointed at its old master.

"Time to step out of your ancestors' shoes, Mr. Graves."


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's note: I'm so sorry for the long wait! Uni started a couple weeks ago and as always it took a toll on my writing ;A; but please enjoy this new chapter!**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Five**

 **i.**

 _December 30_ _th_ _, 1926_

Magellanic Avenue was bustling with activity. Families of young and old crowded around windowpanes, marvelling at the luminescent dress robes or the newest Moontrimmer model. Percival passed through the crowd without lingering. He was not here on a personal errand; he was here for answers.

The brick buildings on either side shielded them from the harsh winter wind. It felt safe here, in this little haven where their kind could shop and be merry. A heavy weight fell upon his shoulders as children laughed cheerfully somewhere behind him. These were his people. He couldn't let them down, not again.

He picked up the pace, and soon spied his destination in the distance. A rustic-looking shop, with a sign in bold gothic letters: The Augury's Antiques.

Percival crossed the pavement and opened the shop door. _Ding._ Inside, the smell of varnish and carpet dust lingered in the air. Glass cabinets and showcases stood at attention, their contents comprising of jewellery, trinkets and first edition hardbacks. It felt as though he'd taken a step back in time.

"Can I help you, Mr. Graves?"

Someone had appeared from a backroom. Percival glanced around. An elderly lady in lime green robes was waiting expectantly at the counter, her face wrinkled but still brimming with a hard energy. She was tall and slim, giving him the impression of a wizened gazelle, alert and cautious.

"Madame Carstein," Percival greeted, walking over to her. "I've come with an inquiry about a transaction."

"An inquiry?" Madame Carstein repeated, folding her arms.

"Yes."

"I would prefer not to give away details," the older woman replied coolly, her expression stony. "It would be bad business."

"I'm afraid you don't have a say in the matter. If you refuse to cooperate, you will be resisting an official MACUSA investigation and thus will be charged accordingly."

Madame Carstein looked like she would gladly Jinx him if she had the choice. "Very well. What do you want?"

Percival took out a photograph from his suit pocket. "We believe that this crate was purchased from your store some time in the last two months. Is that correct?"

Madame Carstein tilted her head to look at the photograph. Almost reluctantly, she nodded. "Yes, that is correct."

"When was it purchased?"

"As you said, about two months ago, a little less."

"Can you remember who you sold it to?"

She paused for a while, thinking. Percival waited with needles in his veins.

"I seem to recall a man with blond hair," she said at last, drawing the words out. "Young, maybe in his late twenties. He was well-dressed and rather polite." She shook her head. "I can't remember much else. It was a while ago, and I have many customers."

"Was there anything peculiar about him?" Percival pressed, his gaze unwavering. "Anything at all?"

Another long pause. Then: "He had long hair. In a ponytail. He looked excited about the item."

Percival tapped his wand on the counter. Another photograph appeared. "Was this the man?"

The woman took a look. "Yes. That's him."

He Vanished the photograph. "Thank you for your time, Madame Carstein."

Percival strode back onto Magellanic Avenue and Disapparated. He marched through the revolving doors of MACUSA, rode up the elevator and found Booker at his desk.

"Get a team on standby," he told him briskly. "No more than five. Then meet me in my office."

"What's going on?" Booker asked, standing up.

"I know who the mole is."

 **ii.**

The report was clutched tightly in Fern's hand as she knocked on the President's door.

"Come in."

Fern stepped into the oval-shaped office, and the same breathless wonder stole her attention. There were six windows spread throughout the room, each framed in white and showing a different view of the city at a different time of the year: one on her left depicted a sunny view of George Washington Bridge, whereas another displayed a rain-drenched Statue of Liberty.

President Picquery glanced up. "Ah, Miss Holloway. You have the report from yesterday?"

"Yes, Madame President," Fern replied, walking to her desk and handing the file over. "I wanted to get it to you before the holidays."

The older woman smiled. "Thank you. When do you think he will be ready? Would it be possible to make a recommendation by next week?"

Fern considered. "Well, it would mean one less week of sessions than planned. If Mr. Graves is fit enough, then I think I may be able to come to a decision by next Friday."

President Picquery nodded. "Good. I can tell Mr. Graves is getting restless," she sighed, leaning back in her chair. "As long as he's ready for it, I'll be glad to see him back out there. I know he's been through a terrible ordeal, and I hate to cause such tension. Perhaps I've been too stringent."

"I think you've made the right decision," Fern said gently in the silence that followed. "Sometimes we need others to remind us to take a break."

President Picquery seemed to digest her words. "Thank you, Miss Holloway. You've been a great help to us here at MACUSA. I will await your final report next Friday."

"You're welcome, Madame President," Fern replied, noting the tiredness in the President's voice. "Have a good afternoon."

Fern walked back out into the corridor. A strange sadness sat in the centre of her chest. She pondered over it, prodding it, trying to determine why it was there. Was she dreading the end of her time with Graves? Surely not. Unlike President Picquery, he hadn't shown much respect or appreciation for her help at all. It should've been relieving to know that their ways would part soon.

Yet the sadness remained, like a mild illness.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the brightly lit entrance hall. She crossed the wide marble floor, about to head back to the hospital, when she caught sight of a familiar figure.

Graves was a few feet ahead of her, taking purposeful strides towards the exit. He was flanked by a group of five: three wizards and two witches, presumably all Aurors, judging by their gaits and the looks of admiration as they passed. Fern hurried, trying to catch up to them, but they Disapparated as soon as they reached the other side of the revolving doors. She stopped in her tracks, standing at the top of the stairs, thinking fast.

For some reason, Fern's heart was beating faster than usual. She knew Graves wasn't meant to be out doing casework. Was she jumping to conclusions, though? Just because he was leaving headquarters didn't mean he was partaking in a dangerous mission. Maybe he had gone out for drinks with his team. It was Thursday afternoon, and the long holiday weekend started tomorrow.

But the nagging feeling inside her only intensified. She had been in his company long enough by now to know that he wasn't the type to socialise. Besides, the group had proceeded in complete silence, as though they'd been deep in focus, readying themselves for a confrontation.

Something was wrong.

Fern felt another bout of uncertainty hit her. He was disobeying direct orders, but she knew that he would want her to keep her nose out of it. She would only be intruding, as she was already doing in his life. And maybe, at the end of the day, this was more important than protocol and procedure.

Something was wrong.

Fern did the only thing she could think of: she ran back to the elevators, rode to the Aurors' department, and spotted the witch she had talked to on her very first day. There was a nameplate on the woman's desk: Porpentina Goldstein.

"Can I help you?" Goldstein asked in alarm, as Fern ran towards her.

"I need to find Mr. Graves," Fern replied urgently. "Please. I need to find him. Now."

 **iii.**

The afternoon sun was setting fast, leaving the Aurors with little light as they pursued their target. Percival sprinted down the alleyway, Booker only a pace behind him, the loud clap of their shoes bouncing back and forth between the brick walls. The other four were closing in from different directions. They were going to try and corner the man, but thus far he had avoided all their efforts, delving deeper and deeper into the city.

 _We have to catch him._

The pair rounded a bend and found themselves face-to-face with a tall wired fence. With an impatient whip of his wand, Percival split open a gap for them to pass through as they frantically followed their mark. The tail end of a dark coat taunted them at the end of the alley.

Booker fired a Stunning Spell over Percival's shoulder, but it was deflected with a familiar, skilled manoeuvre. A bright jet of purple shot towards them in retaliation; the two Aurors ducked, and the rubbish bins behind them exploded noisily. Percival could hear yells of fright from above.

Their target faced front again and burst out of the alleyway onto a main street. A frontier of trees lay on the other side. He made a beeline for the nearest opening.

"Redmont!" Percival called. "He's heading for Central Park."

"On it," came a woman's voice in his earpiece. He saw Imogen Redmont Apparate at the other side of the street and give chase into the woods. Percival and Booker followed, dodging the traffic as they tried to keep up. The lamps in the park were flickering on one by one.

"We're gonna have to clear the area," Booker shouted as they sprinted down the same winding path. "Too many No-Majs."

"Get Tina on it," Percival demanded, and he heard Booker giving instructions. His blood was boiling, his nerves tingling. They were so close.

 _I have to catch him._

"She wants to meet at the south side."

"Go! I'll be fine."

The footsteps behind him ceased. Booker had Disapparated.

Percival ran deeper into the park, quite alone now. The No-Majs were slowly leaving, no doubt from the spells Tina and her team were casting to Confound and draw them out.

The park was a maze of paths and hills. There was a strange, nightmarish quality to the woods at this time of day, with its barren branches and eerie stillness. Above him, the sky was grey and purple; a city haze that hid the stars, leaving him without guidance.

"Redmont, where are you?" Percival asked, his voice loud in the quiet. He heard no reply in his earpiece. "Redmont?"

No answer.

"Do you have eyes on him, Fortnell?" he tried again.

Radio silence. A static buzzing in his ears.

Percival slowed down, his breaths coming in short and fast from the pursuit. He was standing in the middle of a wide path; an unmoving lake stood to his left, glassy beneath the orbs of light. The trees here were thicker and had retained some of their leaves; even so, they were brown and withered-looking, hanging on by a last shred of resolve.

A shadow moved.

Percival hurled a spell between the tree trunks and heard the yell of pain as someone fell. Unrelenting, Percival whipped his wand again, causing the man to fly across the air and land in a heap on the gravel path, right in front of Percival. His wand lay next to him, forgotten in the dirt.

A cold front of fury consumed Percival. He watched as the man groaned, getting slowly to his knees. He raised his head.

Long blond hair. Tied in a ponytail.

Geoffrey Lamarche.

Percival stood quite still, taking in the moment, savouring it.

And then he spoke: "You betrayed me, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey stared back, unwavering. There was a grimace on his face, but the man was resilient. He wasn't afraid. A trait Percival had drilled into his senior Aurors. "A small price for the greater good," his former colleague spat, his breath a white mist. "Grindelwald has the right idea. The rest of the world is blind."

"Grindelwald is lost."

"And so are you," Geoffrey replied slyly. "Have you ever wondered why Grindelwald singled you out? Why he decided to capture you?"

Percival remained silent.

"Because nobody would notice, Mr. Graves. And nobody did, not for a long time." Geoffrey grinned, revealing a mouth of gleaming teeth. "An even longer time for you, I'm sure. Holed up in that crate, in your own bedroom, starving, dying. Isn't that amusing? One of the most powerful and respected wizards of America; so easily replaced."

A frosty wind picked at Percival's scarf, making it swirl in mid-air.

 _He cannot bear the stench. His own stench. Stranded in that black pit, with nothing but his own thoughts running in endless circles. The ebb and flow of despair and anguish. Going mad. Wanting it to end there and then._

Radio silence.

"You'll regret you ever wronged me," he said calmly, eyes boring into the traitor at his feet.

Geoffrey sneered. "You can't hurt me, Graves."

Percival aimed his wand steadily at the man's heart. "No, I can't," he replied quietly. "The Cruciatus Curse, on the other hand…"

Triumph rushed through him upon seeing the look on Geoffrey's face. "You wouldn't."

Percival tilted his head. His blood was deafening in his ears.

A static buzzing.

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Lamarche?"

He flung back his wand in a jagged arc.

" _Cruci—"_

"NO! STOP!"

The voice jolted him from his tunnel vision. Percival spun around. Holloway was sprinting down the path, a hand held out to him. "Mr. Graves," she cried. "Please! Don't do it!"

"Holloway?" he spat, perplexed. "What are you—"

A blunt force propelled him off his feet, sending him crashing into the newcomer. They tumbled to the ground together. Percival scrambled to his knees, wand raised, but he was too late.

With a loud _crack,_ Geoffrey was gone.

 _And his hope has long been gone, abandoning him like the rest of the world. Leaving him here alone to rot and die._

A white rage unlike anything he had ever felt suddenly ripped through his body. He advanced on Holloway, seizing her arm in a vice-like grip. "Why didn't you stop him?" he yelled in her face, pulling her back when she tried to resist. The hand on her arm was trembling. _"Why didn't you stop him?!"_

Holloway looked distraught. "I-I'm sorry, I—"

Before she could finish, another _crack_ tore the air. They both turned and found Booker leaning over, his hands on his knees, forehead shining with sweat. Booker looked up, and Percival's dread grew a thousand fold.

"It was a distraction, sir," Booker said at last, his chest heaving. "There's been a breakout. Grindelwald's gone."


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's note: Thank you all again for your massively supportive reviews! I'm sorry I couldn't update sooner, here is yet another chapter in this little story, enjoy! :)**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Six**

 **i.**

 _December 30_ _th_ _, 1926_

The silence in the room was heavy. Percival stood between Booker and Holloway, a constricted feeling in his chest. The three of them watched as President Picquery paced back and forth behind her desk, her arms folded tightly and her mouth drawn in a thin line. For a long, long time, nobody spoke. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional _pit-pat_ of rain against one of her enchanted windows.

At last, Picquery stopped and turned to face them. "I am going to warn you now," she said lowly, her brown eyes furious, "my patience is running thin. We have a terrible crisis on our hands. I have called you here for answers, so I will expect you to cut the _bullshit_ when I question you. Is that clear?"

All three of them nodded. Percival's hands clenched inside his suit pockets as Picquery's gaze shifted to him.

"Mr. Graves. What were you and your Aurors doing in Central Park?"

Percival composed himself before answering. "We were pursuing ex-senior Auror Geoffrey Lamarche. He was a spy within our department. We attempted to detain him at his apartment, but he escaped and managed to make his way further into the city."

"He was a spy?" Picquery repeated, her expression revealing her shock.

"Yes. He is one of Grindelwald's followers. He was the one who sold me out." He sighed, a hollow and depleted sound. "I believe he wanted us to tail him, in order to split our forces and allow his fellow fanatics to aid Grindelwald's escape."

"Who else did you take with you?" Picquery asked, nonplussed. "Surely you did not employ the whole of the department?"

"I had a total of five Aurors with me, including Mr. Pinney. However, Miss Goldstein and a few more came to Confound the No-Majs in the vicinity."

Picquery absorbed his words, her face taut with both disbelief and fury. She looked as if she had something else to say to him, but instead turned away and directed her words at Booker. "And what of you, Mr. Pinney? How are you involved in all this?"

"I was in charge of Grindelwald's interrogation, Madame President." Booker sounded attentive and calm, obviously doing a better job than Percival at controlling his emotions. Percival wasn't sure whether to be proud or irritated. "I got it from Grindelwald himself that we had a spy on our hands, so I informed Mr. Graves of the potential risk."

"And you didn't think to tell me because…?"

"Forgive me, Madame President. I thought it best to maintain a low profile to avoid startling the mole."

"You are not the Director of Magical Security, Mr. Pinney. This decision was not yours to make."

"No," Percival intervened, as Booker opened his mouth hastily. "No. I made the decision to keep it between the two of us."

Picquery's eyes flared at him, but once again, she spoke to Booker. "And the breakout? How did it happen?"

"One of the guards sent me a Patronus. I Apparated to the holding cells straight away; it was messy. Ten injured in total, three in critical condition. The guard told me they were attacked by no less than five of Grindelwald's followers, all duellers of a high calibre. Our forces were distracted by Lamarche, they weren't prepared."

Picquery fell deep into thought, her shoulders rigidly set. Percival could almost see the contingency plans she was making behind that fierce visage. The other three stood as still as the bookcases behind them, waiting for a deliberation.

After a minute or so, the President announced, "As much as it pains me, we cannot rule out the possibility of there being more spies. I want to run background checks on all personnel in your department, and to make arrangements for the same to be carried out for the rest of MACUSA. I also want official reports on both Geoffrey Lamarche and Grindelwald's breakout to be completed as soon as possible. Get your people on it, Mr. Pinney. I know tomorrow is the holidays, but we no longer have that luxury. Go, now."

"Yes, Madame President," Booker replied flatly. He turned on his heel and left the office, closing the door behind him. It was just the two of them now: Percival and Holloway. He refused to look at her.

Picquery took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled heavily.

"You disobeyed a direct order, Mr. Graves."

"Madame President—"

"I gave you very clear instructions not to do any fieldwork whilst you were under assessment." Picquery's voice had taken on a venomous quality. "You needed time to recover, to gather your head. And yet you decided to go behind my back, regardless of my superiority. You decided to pursue Geoffrey Lamarche, and you let him escape. You sought vengeance for yourself, and along the way you risked our exposure to the No-Majs once again."

"I was doing my job," Percival replied, his knuckles shining white. "But Miss Holloway interfered before I could—"

"SILENCE!" Picquery roared suddenly, slamming her hand on her desk and toppling a bottle of ink onto her files. "You were reckless! You were insubordinate! But more than that you were _outrageously stupid_. And I will stand it no more!" She stabbed a finger at her door. "In ten minutes' time, I have to walk into a room filled with delegates across the world. I have to tell them that the most dangerous wizard of our time has escaped from out beneath my nose. What am I going to tell them, Percival? That our Director got _distracted?!"_

Percival felt the back of his neck grow hot. He willed himself to hold his tongue, despite the overwhelming humiliation consuming his innards.

Picquery looked as if she wanted to slap him. Breathing harshly, she looked to Holloway, who seemed to flinch a little. "Miss Holloway. I don't know how you managed to locate Mr. Graves, and to be frank I don't really care, but from now on I want you to speak directly to me if he ever steps out of line."

"Yes, Madame President."

"And I'm fully aware next week was meant to be the last of your sessions, but judging by recent events, I do not feel Mr. Graves is ready to move on. I want you here for the next three weeks, starting Monday. Is that understood, Miss Holloway?"

"Yes, Madame President."

Picquery glared at them both for a moment, then gestured with a shaking hand. "Get out, the both of you."

Percival followed Holloway through the door. They were quite alone in the corridor outside. He turned round to face her, and saw that there was a mixture of fear, regret and defiance staring back at him. And never before had he felt so much loathing for the woman. A vital support had snapped between them, leaving them stranded and indifferent to the other's suffering.

 _I trusted you._

"My office," Percival seethed, shouldering past her. "Now."

 **ii.**

Fern felt like she was in a nightmare.

Graves did not speak during the time it took to reach his office; he didn't even look at her. Fern followed him down the hallway, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She was scared. She had seen the hatred pouring through those cold eyes after they'd left Picquery's office, and in that moment she had fervently wished to be somewhere else, _someone_ else.

They reached the mass of wooden desks, where pandemonium reigned. Aurors were running back and forth, compiling information, checking leads. They all looked and sounded exhausted: it was eight o'clock on Thursday, they had been expecting to go home that evening for a long holiday weekend, to celebrate New Year's with their families and friends.

But no, the earth had been pulled out from under their feet, leaving them frazzled and stressed and frightened.

Fern followed Graves into his office. The door shut behind them, blocking out the hum of panic. She stood where she was, her hands clasped in front of her, watching as Graves went to sit on the edge of his desk. He was looking at the floor, his hands in his trouser pockets.

It felt like a canyon stood between them. One false step, and she would plummet.

"Why did you follow me?"

Graves' voice was rigid and grating. Fern found it difficult to look up, even though his eyes were still fixated at her feet.

"I saw you leave the building today," she replied quietly, clutching her fingers. "I—the President told me about your orders."

Silence.

Fern went on: "I just…I wasn't sure if you'd be all right."

Graves laughed. It sent a shiver coursing down her back. "Wasn't sure if I'd be all right?" he repeated cruelly, shaking his head. "You are unbelievable, Miss Holloway. Unbelievable."

Something seemed to be closing in around her throat. And yet the ridicule in his words acted as a catalyst. "You were going to torture him," she whispered, her voice shaking a little.

At last, he looked up into her eyes, and she saw that immense hatred again: red and churning. "What does it matter to you?" he growled. "And don't tell me you 'care', Holloway. Your 'care' has done enough damage for one day."

"You were going to use the Cruciatus Curse."

The truth of it hung in the air, a menacing reminder of what had almost been. It sat on her shoulders like a dead weight, and though it was a burden, it also helped to ground her, to keep her in the moment. "I couldn't let you do that, Mr. Graves," she said again, more forcibly.

"Wasn't it warranted?" he demanded rhetorically, shrugging once. "Doesn't the crime fit the punishment? He handed me to Grindelwald, had me tortured and held captive for weeks."

"You can't justify it."

"Not even for righteousness? Not even for—"

"The greater good?" Fern challenged, holding his gaze.

Graves looked as if he wanted to spit at her. He started to walk back and forth, just as Picquery had done, and Fern took her chance to try and make him see reason. "I know you're hurting, Mr. Graves. I know you're angry. But I also know that you're a good man, and you need to—"

Graves held up a hand, interrupting her. "Enough. I'm sick of arguing the point." He took a breath, and Fern knew there was something else on his mind. She waited, and sure enough: "You didn't stop him."

Fern swallowed. "I couldn't," she breathed, looking at the floor now.

"Why not? Why didn't you stop Lamarche from escaping?"

No reply.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Graves tilt his head. Vindictively, like he was watching an animal caught in a trap. And instantly, she knew what was coming next.

"You're a Squib."

There it was. The root of everything: the scorn, the ridicule, the edge in his eyes that told her he no longer saw her quite in the same light. Fern let out a shallow sigh, grasping her fingers so hard they began to ache. "So you've figured it out," she said weakly.

"It was obvious."

"When?"

"Recently."

"Then you know as good as anyone that I was useless," Fern retorted suddenly, unable to hide the crack in her voice. She had a bruise on her arm where Graves had grabbed her, after Lamarche had Disapparated. "You know I can't do magic."

Fern thought there was a triumphant shadow on Graves' face. "Then you should have stayed away, where you wouldn't have interfered with important Auror activity."

"And what if I _hadn't_ shown up?" Fern threw at him. "What if you were alone back there? You would've – would've used an Unforgivable and gotten away with it, just like the criminals you're hunting."

"But what are you going to do about it now, I wonder?" Graves asked, a dark eyebrow quirking up tauntingly. He seemed more in control now, gaining the upper hand, and Fern despised him for it. "Tell President Picquery like the good, _honest_ citizen you are?"

Fern bit down on her lip. "No," she said at last, crossing her arms. "But that means you owe me. This could land you in prison. You've sentenced people for lesser crimes."

Graves eyes narrowed. She had threatened him, and he was not going to let her go unscathed. "You lied to me," he said, running a hand over his waistcoat. "You told me you went to Ilvermony."

Fern's eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, unable to defend herself. _I didn't want this._

Graves pursed his lips and took a long time spelling out his next words, "No wonder you chose this occupation. I suppose it's about the only thing that makes people like you to feel _relevant_ in the magical world."

At first, Fern couldn't believe that she had heard correctly. Had he really just said that? She gaped at the man before her in astonishment, taking in the handsome brow, the strongly set jaw, the clean lines on his suit. Some small voice inside her knew that he was wounded, and that he was just lashing out to make it even. He was shifting the blame onto her, because catching Lamarche had meant too much to him. She understood that; his face was easy to read when he was angry.

And yet, a torrent of repulsion welled up inside her, coupled with a sharp, sour disappointment that she had let herself open up to him. She thought back to their meeting yesterday (it felt like light years ago now, from a different planet). Not all of it had been a lie. She thought of her story, of her father's sadness.

 _I trusted you._

"No wonder Grindelwald chose to impersonate you," Fern whispered furiously, backing away from him. "You're so alone, it's pathetic. Nobody missed you, because nobody knows who you really are. But I do." Her hand found the cool brass handle behind her. "You're a cold son of a bitch, Mr. Graves."

Fern burst through the door, slamming it hard behind her and stalking down the hallway. Her path was blurry with hot tears; she wiped them away impatiently. _This isn't the first time,_ she told herself. _This isn't the first time it's happened._

Then why did it feel like it was?


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's note: I am so, so,** _ **so**_ **sorry for not updating in so long. I'm currently doing an internship and it has been sucking the LIFE out of me. I've decided to upload this chapter even though I'm not totally happy with it, but I wanted to give you lovely readers another bite of the story. Thank you so very much for your continued support! It really means the world, I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'll try not to make you all wait so long for the next one :')**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Seven**

 **i.**

 _January 1_ _st_ _, 1927_

The countdown had ended. All around them came sounds of celebration: fireworks raining down upon the city, champagne corks popping merrily, New Yorkers singing at the top of their lungs on the streets below. And yet the small family gathered in the living room was oddly solemn, clinking their glasses together in a quiet toast before returning to their seats on the sofa, like dreary insomniacs looking for comfort.

The No-Majs were oblivious to the evil in their wake. The family was not.

Fern looked to her parents. They had dressed up slightly for the occasion. Her mother had dug out her favourite rose-coloured robes, whilst her father had opted for a festively patterned jumper, sporting antlers and snowflakes and the like. They looked wonderful, and Fern felt another wave of anguish, knowing that their minds were preoccupied with darker matters.

"Happy New Year, guys," she said, braving a smile.

Her father seemed to jolt a little at her voice, but he returned her smile nevertheless. "Happy New Year, honey."

"Happy New Year," her mother echoed softly, leaning into her husband's side.

"Things will be okay," she told them, though she was mostly looking at her father as she spoke, two pairs of blue eyes locked onto one another. Fern needed to know that he was steady, that he was there with them, and not wandering dangerously into the backwoods of his mind. "Trust me. MACUSA is going to fix things. Everything's gonna be fine."

She wanted to hide the New York Ghost that lay on the coffee table. There was a photograph of Grindelwald, leering from behind bars, with a bold caption slapped across the top of the page.

GRINDELWALD ESCAPES: NEW YORK CITY IN PERIL?

Fern sighed inwardly. She felt lost. The coming of a new year should have been a time of happiness and warmth. Instead, there was a feeling of dread wherever she went: her office, her flat, her home.

 _I've got to do something._

Getting to her feet, Fern crossed the room and turned on the little radio perched on their windowsill.

"Are you looking for the news?" her mother asked, glancing up.

Fern shook her head, continuing to tune the dial until she heard the distinct notes of a jazz channel. They played a variety of wizarding and No-Maj music. Tonight, a popular No-Maj song was on, the quivering female voice and the tinkling of the piano keys breathing life into the room.

" _The name is sugar! I call my baby my sugar…"_

"You always did like Ethel Waters," her father said fondly, the stiffness in his features melting away.

Fern smiled and held out her hand. "May I have this dance?"

Her father chuckled and ambled over to her in the centre of the room. Holding her in his arms, they turned on the spot for the rest of the song, Fern's mother watching from the sofa with the widest of smiles over her champagne glass.

" _No, I won't cheat on my sugar, that sugar baby of mine…"_

 **ii.**

 _January 3_ _rd_ _, 1927_

 _He's back in the park. The air is clear and dry here, sparse of any breeze or sound. Night has long fallen. Geoffrey Lamarche lies sprawled on the ground before him, wandless and glaring with defiant eyes. They are alone._

" _You can't hurt me, Graves."_

 _Percival tilts his head curiously, tempting his thoughts._

" _Are you sure about that, Mr. Lamarche?"_

 _He watches the braveness give way to the horror beneath as the realisation sinks in._

" _No…n-no! Please!"_

 _Percival smiles, and the branches around him begin to sway with his feverish hunger. He flings back his wand in a jagged arc, and almost instantly feels it ripped away from his hand._

 _He turns around, the world blurring in slow motion, and finds himself staring into a strange, pale face._

" _Time to come home, Mr. Graves," Grindelwald whispers, and suddenly Percival is unable to move. His wand breaks easily with a_ snap _between Grindelwald's fists. The jagged pieces fall to the floor, where they dance in a merry taunt before they lie completely still._

" _No! Stop! Let me go!" Unseen hands are dragging him backwards. The scene is changing, growing. The branches become his window frames, the grass becomes his carpet. He's back in his bedroom._

 _His fear is palpable, a living thing of its own._

" _You've been a bad boy, Mr. Graves."_

 _Percival looks down at his chest. He's bleeding, red gushes of it wetting his shirt. The pain blooms a second later: penetrating and unbearable, making him cry out against his will._

" _Yes. You must be punished."_

 _And Grindelwald is no longer in front of him. Percival is staring at himself, but crueller. The eyes are larger, bulging out of their sockets, and the mouth is pulled back in a hideous smile. The skin looks like it might rip._

" _Nobody will notice. Nobody will miss you."_

 _He feels his heels hit the ledge of the crate, and with a final push he's suspended in mid-air for a tremulous, terrifying moment before he plummets backwards into nothingness. His own screams can't even keep up to him as he falls and falls, becoming forgotten, sinking deeper into the blackness that's choking him, and he realises (_ oh God _) that he can't breathe, the air whipped away from his open, gaping mouth, heart in his throat,_ I can't breathe _—_

WHAM.

Percival jolted upright. Heart pounding, sweat on his forehead. The sound of his own panting loud in his ears. He ran his shaking hands over his desk, palms damp and sticky like an amphibian, double-checking that he was awake, that Grindelwald wasn't standing in the corner of his office with malice in his smile.

His lamp was on the ground. Had he been thrashing around in his sleep? He leant over slowly and placed it back where it belonged, feeling panicked and unnerved. The nightmares were getting worse.

Someone knocked on his door. Percival realised he was on the verge of hyperventilating. _Not now._ He forced himself to breathe—taking huge gulps of air—before he adjusted his tie and called, "Come in."

Tina poked her head through the door. "Mr. Graves," she said, concern etched upon her thin face. "I heard a noise."

Percival cleared his throat and waved his hand in a manner he hoped looked nonchalant. It was difficult; the rawness of his vision was lingering like an illness. "I knocked something over by accident."

He could tell Tina wasn't buying his act. "You look terrible, sir. No offence."

"You know me, always overworked," he replied with an attempt of a smile that ended up looking like a spasm of pain. "Even more so now, for obvious reasons."

It was Monday, and his workload had grown exponentially over the weekend. What with Picquery's recent outburst, Percival knew it would've been unwise to cross her again. Thus, he had resigned himself to his office, filling out paperwork and liaising with the other departments to carry out background checks. It was going to take a massive effort to ensure the checks were thorough and reliable, and it all came down to him, the conductor (and possibly _reason_ ) of this whole fiasco.

"I've got the report on the break-ins down at Magellanic," Tina said at length, walking over and placing a file on his desk. Parts of the magical community had succumbed to panic, fearing that Grindelwald might take over any day, resulting in a sudden rise in mass looting and street crime.

"Thank you. I'll look over it tomorrow." Percival picked it up and added it to the growing pile of documents to review. Usually he enjoyed the work, the satisfying challenge of it, but lately it was dragging him down, adding to his hours of sleeplessness.

"You're welcome." He could feel Tina's eyes watching him as he looked down at his fingers; they were tingling with the last shreds of adrenaline.

"What is it, Tina?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I didn't know you were seeing a Hearken."

Percival groaned inwardly. By now the whole of the department knew about his situation with Holloway. Gossip travelled fast in the office, and it seemed like everywhere he went he had curious eyes tailing him. He was everyone's talk, everyone's speculations. It set him on edge more than he'd like to admit.

"Yes, well, it's just for a while longer."

"Is she helping?"

Percival shut his eyes. He saw the smile that was slightly unsure of itself, the eyes that were observant but unobtrusive.

In the calmest voice he could muster, Percival said, "That's all for now, Tina. Thank you."

 **iii.**

The office was a quaint little arrangement. It was square, with just enough space to fit the two large sofas, desk, bookshelves and leafy pot plants. The interior colours were mild: pastels and neutrals, nothing that caught the eye or caused alarm. This was a place where thoughts were unearthed. A certain calm was needed.

Fern was at her desk, waiting for Mrs. Koppett to arrive for her appointment. Mrs. Koppett was a middle-aged Irish-American woman who worked at the bank. Two years ago, her half-blood husband had been murdered by Grindelwald's supporters whilst on a business trip to Europe. Understandably, recent events were bringing back many old feelings of sorrow and grief, feelings that were hard to deal with on her own.

The clock on the wall read two-thirty. Still half an hour until her patient arrived. Fern leafed through another page of her book, but after a second or two realised that she was barely taking any of it in. She set it aside, sighing.

Graves' insults had hurt. There was no denying it. But Fern was trying to move on from their ugly moment, to cut it out like the rotten part of an apple. She knew that whatever Graves had to say could never shake her faith in her work, nor her life. She was proud to wear her own skin.

And yet, her mind continued to dwell on it: the contempt in his face, the scorn in his voice. Fern massaged her temples, wondering how Wednesday's session was going to go. She didn't know if she wanted to go back. Guilt still weighed heavily in her stomach. Graves had been right; she had distracted him in a critical moment. But the alternative was too terrible to think about.

She had said he was a good man.

 _Are you sure about that?_

Knock knock.

Fern blinked. Two-forty. Mrs. Koppett was early. "Come in."

The door opened, and a tall man walked in. She recognised him as the Auror who had been standing next to Graves back in Picquery's office. A head of brown hair, a bespoke pinstriped suit. He was in his early thirties, she guessed, dependable-looking and effortlessly put together. "Miss Holloway?" he asked. "I'm Booker Pinney, from the Department of Magical Security."

"Hi. Yes, I remember," Fern said, frowning. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I'm gathering witness reports on the day of Grindelwald's breakout," Pinney said, tucking his hands in his suit pockets. "You were there at the park with Mr. Graves, during the pursuit of Geoffrey Lamarche. I was wondering if you were available now for questioning."

Fern looked at her clock. "I have an appointment at three, so I'm afraid I won't have very long to talk."

Pinney nodded. "No problem. I can come by later. I'd like to get as much detail as possible, so it may take a while. Apologies in advance," he said with a small chuckle. "I'm sure you have other things to be getting on with."

Fern couldn't help but smile. She liked the way his gooseberry-grey eyes crinkled. "Don't worry. It must be so busy for you guys, back at the office."

"It's absolute chaos. But we're soldiering on." He shrugged. "We don't really have a choice."

"I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say we appreciate all the hard work you're doing."

Pinney looked a little startled by her words, but he smiled after a beat. There was a roguish charm about him: he looked like a man who drank butterbeer with his friends on the weekends and wasn't afraid to get into a couple of fistfights at the bar.

"We're just doing our job, Miss Holloway. But thank you for that."

"You're welcome. So, my appointment ends at four-thirty," Fern said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Will you be around then?"

"Sure. We could grab a coffee, or an early dinner. My treat," Pinney added, a small promise in his voice.

Fern felt her heart flutter a little. "Oh, no, there's no need for that," she hastened.

"Really? Who could pass up a free meal?" He had surprisingly expressive eyebrows.

"I, um—"

At that moment, Mrs. Koppett peeked through the doorway in her blue peacoat and leather handbag. She looked slightly bewildered. "Have I come at the wrong time?" she asked with round eyes, staring at Fern.

"No, no, Mrs. Koppett. Do come in," Fern replied, quickly trotting over to hold the door open. Mrs. Koppett walked in, still looking hesitant, and sat down on one of the reclining sofas, her eyes darting between the both of them.

"I'll come back at four-thirty then," Pinney said, dipping his chin. "I'm sorry for intruding."

"That's all right. See you later, Mr. Pinney."

He flashed her a grin as he stepped outside. "Please, call me Booker."

Flustered, Fern simply smiled back and shut the door behind him.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author's note: Thank you so much again for the amazingly positive feedback. You guys are honestly the best, and reading your reviews always puts a huge smile on my face! Here's yet another chapter, unlike the last the two main characters actually interact :') Enjoy!**

 **Warning: This chapter contains mention of suicide. Please read at your own discretion.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Eight**

 **i.**

 _March 20_ _th_ _, 1915_

Spring was beginning to creep into the city. A mild drowsiness hung in the air, borne from pollen and perfumes and dewy leaves. There seemed to be an emergence of smiles on the streets, as though the change in season was infusing joy into everyday errands that had once been trivial and meaningless.

Seventeen-year-old Fern was walking home with her mother, the sun shining bright and kind on their faces. Her woolly cardigan had been shrugged off during their outing and was now slung over one shoulder, revealing a loose green dress that fell to her knees. It was a dazzling sort of day: the sky was as blue as her eyes.

"We'll get these into a pie in no time," Fern's mother was saying, looking down at the basket of Rome apples. The older woman wore a blouse and long flowing skirt that made her look like a friendly bluebell. It was Saturday, a day reserved for family activities: shopping at the farmer's market, cooking new recipes, strolling leisurely in the park.

"Shame Dad didn't want to come," Fern said in a wistful tone. He had been sullen all morning, taking an age to get out of bed and wearing a mask of stubborn silence as he picked at the breakfast his daughter had prepared for him. He'd barely muttered a word.

Her mother's nose crinkled, though Fern could tell she was trying not to let it bother her. "We'll see how he's doing," she said fairly, unlocking the front door and climbing up the communal staircase inside. "Hey, let's try and get him out this afternoon. Some fresh air would do him good."

Fern's mother unlocked the door to their flat and the two stepped into their living room. The windows had been thrown open, letting the fresh breeze waft inside. Their favourite books were stacked neatly on the shelves (comprising mostly of novels and textile books), and the sofa cushions had been plumped so that they looked fat and inviting. It was a home in order.

It looked a little empty.

"I think your father went back to bed." Fern's mother set the basket of apples on the kitchen counter and twirled her wand, causing a baking tin, a wooden board and a handful of ingredients to appear. "Why don't you go check on him?" she asked over her shoulder. "I'll make a start on this pie in the meantime."

Fern strode through the living room and down a short hallway that led to three separate rooms: the bathroom, Fern's bedroom, and her parents' master bedroom. All three doors were closed, which in itself was not unusual, but Fern couldn't help feeling a little hesitant as she approached her parents' bedroom. _He might be in one of his moods again._ Which involved him treating her stonily or else ignoring her completely. It had the power to ruin even the most perfect of days. "Dad?" she asked, knocking twice.

No reply.

Fern turned the doorknob. The door swung open. It took a second for Fern's sun-drenched eyes to spot what was wrong: her father lying face down on the carpet, a small glass vial in his hand.

He wasn't moving.

Fern's heart exploded. She couldn't think. And in this manic, terrifying new reality, it took a great struggle to choke the word out: "MOM!"

In a flash, her mother rushed down the hallway and was by her side. All the blood seemed to drain from her face.

"Norman!" her mother gasped, collapsing beside him and grasping his limp body. And all Fern could do was stand there and hug herself, the sheer panic immobilising her, rooting her to the spot. This couldn't be real. This wasn't happening.

 _WhatdoIdowhatdoId_ _o_ —

"No, no, no," her mother suddenly whimpered, two fingers at his neck. "Fern, I-I need my wand, it's in the kitchen. Hurry!"

Fern sprinted back down the hallway. Her eyes swept the kitchen counter desperately until she found her mother's wand. Grabbing it, she ran back and thrust it into her trembling hand. Her father had yet to move.

"Hold on," her mother said urgently. Fern grabbed onto her arm, and before she knew it she was being sucked into a whirring, petrifying darkness. The breath was being squeezed from her lungs, and she fought to stay conscious as they spun in dizzying circles. Just as she thought she might pass out, she felt her feet slam into the ground. The spinning stopped.

Fern toppled over, her vision blurry and unclear, but she felt her mother get up and cry, "HELP! Please! Someone help me!"

Rapid footsteps. The creaking of wheels. Fern groaned and rubbed her face before looking up. Her father was being lifted onto a stretcher by wizards in uniform. Healers. They were at the hospital. People were staring.

"What happened?" one of the Healers was asking her mother, who only shook her head in despair, seemingly lost for words.

Fern glimpsed the small glass vial on the floor. She scrambled to pick it up. "He had this," she blurted, pressing it clumsily into the Healer's lined palm. Behind him, her father was being rushed away, the Healers' urgent voices growing distant.

The Healer took a glance at the vial. "Please wait here. We'll send someone to update you as soon as we can."

Fern's mother nodded silently. Her cheeks were wet with tears as she reached over to Fern. "Please let him be okay," came her mother's choked whispers in her hair. "Please, please, please…"

Unable to speak, Fern shut her eyes and buried her face into her mother's shoulder.

 **ii.**

 _January 5_ _th_ _, 1927_

Six days since Grindelwald's escape. Six days with no new leads, no new clues as to his whereabouts.

Six days of failure and regret.

Percival was growing sick of those same four walls. He used to love his office, the serenity and power he felt whenever he sat in his chair. Things of late had taken that away from him. Now all he felt when he returned was an overbearing anger and dejection. He hated the press of people on the other side of his door, their questioning gazes crawling underneath his skin.

Which explained why he was sat at the back of the MACUSA entrance hall, a thick stack of folders in his lap. He was going through the personnel files one-by-one, checking for criminal records or any hints that might indicate a second mole in the department. It was tedious work, but it had to be done by him and him alone.

He was still hateful of Holloway. The scene in the park continued to haunt him. It was sheer madness, how he had let her distract him. Geoffrey should've been behind bars by now, paying for his sins, but she had singlehandedly ensured that he was back by his master's side, two wanted men at large. It made Percival's blood boil just thinking about it, which he did, often. He jabbed his quill down harder than necessary, puncturing a hole in the report he'd been writing.

 _For the love of—_

"Coffee?"

Percival glanced up. Holloway was standing before him, holding two cups of coffee and wearing a calm smile on her face. She was in that same camel-coloured coat again, with a thick tartan scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Her cheeks were tinted pink with cold.

 _A Squib._

As irritated as he was by her presence, Percival couldn't help feeling a little awkward. What was there left to say? He had belittled her, he had scorned her, but she was still here on the dot for their appointment. It made him feel a certain way that he didn't care for right now.

Perhaps he'd been silent for too long. Holloway seemed uncertain as well, but to his surprise she didn't remark upon his stoniness. Instead, she set the cups down on the table between them and looked back into his eyes.

"Mr. Graves, I'd like to say a few words," she began in a voice that was both gentle and determined. "I'm sorry for insulting you last week. I was out of line; it was completely and utterly unprofessional of me to have done such a thing. But more importantly, I want to apologise for intruding upon your investigation. I still stand by the fact that I should've stopped you from using the Cruciatus Curse. Nevertheless, I let a criminal slip away, and I'll always blame myself for that. You had every right to be angry with me. I hope you can forgive me for my mistakes." She sighed heavily, looking away briefly. "Merlin knows I can't."

Percival blinked up at her. Never had he heard her speak so sincerely and without fear. In truth, he was finding it hard to believe her words, or at least where they came from. Didn't she want to take revenge on him, for the things he had said? But as he continued to gaze into that smooth, unassuming face (her cheekbones unchiselled, her lips soft and rounded), he saw no hidden anger.

He wasn't ready to apologise—not yet—but he surely could give back, if only a little.

"I forgive you, Miss Holloway," he said at last, inclining his head a tiny fraction. He was still finding it hard to think of things to say. "Mistakes happen. We move on."

Holloway beamed, and she took the opportunity to sit down on the opposite armchair, tugging it a little closer. "I hope you'll have some coffee," she said, leaning forward to retrieve her own cup from the table. "It's Madamemoiselle Rousseau's, from down the road. Double espresso."

Percival obliged, Vanishing his files and quill before taking the cup in his hand. The coffee tasted fresh and strong. "Your usual?" he asked, sceptical.

She smiled. "No, a lucky guess. I only have mochas."

"Shocking."

He could feel himself slipping back into an old routine, and it was strange, so strange. One second he had been furious over her, wanting to tear down that smile and make her pay for her insolence. Now, they were as civil as could be, sipping coffee and staring at each other through the wisps of steam rising from their cups, the echoing sound of footsteps and chatter of a busy workday reaching them from across the hall.

The notepad and quill were sitting in her lap. He hadn't noticed she'd taken them out. "What are we going to talk about today?" he asked, when she didn't initiate.

"Anything you want to talk about, Mr. Graves. That's why I'm here."

And all of a sudden he wanted to apologise. For humiliating her. He felt the words sit on his tongue for a dangerous second or two, teetering on the edge of speech. Holloway was looking at him expectantly, that familiar patient air about her, as if she knew of his internal battle but was still doing a damn good job at hiding it.

He just couldn't do it.

"I'm still not sleeping," he ended up saying, and it sounded infantile and stupid. He almost flushed.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Holloway edged forward in the chair. "I could arrange for some Sleeping Draughts to be made for you."

Percival shook his head. "That won't be necessary." He couldn't tell her about the nightmares, for the same reason why he couldn't apologise. "Perhaps it's the work. And the confinement. I find my office stifling now. Hence, _this,_ " he added, making a sweeping motion with his hand.

"Were you working over New Year's?"

"Yes, as was the whole department. Even so, there haven't been any new leads." He was very conscious of another wave of irritation overcoming him. "I wish I could help them out there."

"It must be difficult times," Holloway said quietly, watching him steadily. "How do you feel about being unable to actively search for leads yourself?"

Percival took another sip of coffee. He felt tired. "Frustrated. Helpless. Pathetically useless."

"You're not useless, Mr. Graves."

He sighed, running a hand over his jaw. "Let's hope the President agrees with you, Miss Holloway.

 **iii.**

Fern was waiting by the revolving doors. Her session with Graves had ended fifteen minutes ago. Despite his lack of aggression, she still wasn't quite sure if he had meant it when he said he forgave her. She had glimpsed a certain strained look halfway through their meeting, though it may well have been due to his lack of sleep. She was starting to get worried about it; perhaps she should bring up the Sleeping Draught again on Friday.

It also didn't escape her notice that he hadn't apologised. To be frank, she had expected as much. A proud man like Percival Graves would never have admitted to his wrongdoings so easily. She only had to look at his relationship with President Picquery to understand: he had disobeyed a direct order, and yet he had never once apologised during their confrontation after the incident.

She'd known Graves for three weeks now, and Fern still felt like a stranger at times, intruding upon his busy life. Yet she was still trying. _Why?_ she asked herself, staring unseeingly at the golden ornaments in the hall. Why was she making an effort when he was clearly a wizard who looked down on people like her? It would've been so easy to just hand over the case to someone else, to take a step back and leave it behind.

Maybe she still believed in him, despite all his faults.

"Hello there," a voice said in her ear, and Fern turned to find Booker grinning down at her. "Sorry for keeping you waiting. Been busy, understandably."

"That's okay," Fern replied with a smile, allowing him to place a hand on the small of her back. After his questioning on Monday, Booker had asked if she'd wanted to meet again. For a quick bite, nothing more. And without really thinking about it, she had said yes. "Are you sure you've got time? I can wait till Friday. Graves really wants to find Grindelwald."

"It's fine, I've got the juniors on it," Booker said breezily as they stepped into the cold afternoon air. "Com'on, I know a good place nearby."

And so they left, unaware of the pair of brown eyes following them as they disappeared into the crowd.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author's note: Apologies for the long wait! I've been busy preparing for uni next year and doing other boring real life things. Thank you all for your kind reviews and continued support, I really hope you enjoy this new chapter!**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Nine**

 **i.**

 _January 7_ _th_ _, 1927_

The shower ran hot down his spine. Percival stood under the rushing water, gusts of steam clouding the glass panels. He hadn't moved for what felt like ages, obliged to just feel the warmth slowly seep into his aching joints. But the longer he waited (for a miracle remedy, for it all to stop), the more he began to realise that the knot in his chest simply refused to go away. It was dull and parasitic, a feeling that became more apparent when he was alone.

He tipped his head back, closing his eyes as his hair ran flat against his scalp. Often he wondered what it would be like to drown. He'd heard stories of past Aurors being subjected to horrendous deaths. He wondered if he would fight till his last breath, or if he would cave to his fate and surrender, like a candle being snuffed out.

 _Like you did in that crate._

The knot tightened.

Percival ground the heels of his hands against his forehead. He didn't know why he was struggling so hard with the memories. They seemed to be worsening week by week, as though his mind and body were preparing for the next attack, the next violation. How had he let Grindelwald reduce him to such an anxious wreck? The thought made him both furious and helpless. What if he never got better? What if Holloway (or worse Picquery) caught onto him and decided to keep him under wraps for the whole damn year?

 _Pull yourself together._

He turned off the water. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Percival strode into the guest bedroom and pulled on his nightwear. He hadn't slept in the upstairs master bedroom since he'd returned from the hospital. He couldn't cope with the horrors seeping through the carpet, lingering in the bed sheets like a foul odour. Thus he had relocated here, where his heart did not jam up in his throat.

Percival lay down beneath the covers, bathed in darkness as he switched off the lamp. A slit of bluish light ran across the ceiling, and Percival stared at it as if it were a secret passageway, leading him to the answers he so desperately sought.

" _You're so alone, it's pathetic."_

He had caught her heading out with Booker after their session last Wednesday. And although it had caused him to pause as he rose from the armchair, it hadn't exactly shocked him. Booker was amiable, quick-witted, and handsome. No doubt it hadn't taken much effort on his part to win Holloway over.

The hand on her back. An intimate gesture, full of trust.

It surprised most people, but Percival had had his fair share of intimate moments, despite being raised by such distant parents. There had been childhood sweethearts, past lovers, even the fond, platonic moments shared between cousins during stuffy, regal ceremonies. But as he'd grown older over the years, his work had stepped in and stripped him bare of all that was dear and good.

Percival closed his eyes. He could still see Holloway's watery eyes glaring at him one last time before she marched out of his office, so different to the pleasant look of mild surprise when he had accepted her cup of coffee.

 _Yet you still can't say sorry, you coward._

They had met again today. Wednesday and Friday. The two days of his week he both dreaded and yet found oddly amusing.

" _So, I spoke to the Healers," Holloway said, reaching into her handbag and retrieving a small glass bottle. "They were happy for me to prescribe you Sleeping Draughts, as long as you're under my supervision."_

 _Percival eyed the potion. "I don't need it."_

" _I beg to differ, Mr. Graves." When he remained silent, Holloway gave him a quizzical look. "May I ask why you keep rejecting the idea? You need more sleep. This will certainly help you."_

 _His eyebrows drew into a tight line. "I don't like the idea of becoming dependent on substances."_

" _But_ _—"_

 _He raised a hand. "Please. Let us talk of something else."_

 _For a moment, Fern gazed at him so sternly that he almost felt sheepish. But then she sighed and placed the bottle on his desk with a soft_ clink. _"Well, it's here if you change your mind. For the record, I don't want the President blaming me for your lack of sleep."_

Percival had almost smiled at the comment, muttered to herself as though she were complaining of a disobedient child.

The Sleeping Draught now stood on his bedside table. He refused to touch it. Instead, he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.

Several long hours passed, and Percival eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.

 **ii.**

 _January 10_ _th_ _, 1927_

Fern was in bed when the Patronus appeared.

She felt its presence even with her eyes closed, a sort of warmth more penetrating than sunlight. Her eyes flickered open, and she found herself staring into the wise, benign face of a sea turtle hovering over her. Her shell was a myriad of that bluish white light, and her flippers paddled ever so slowly, as if keeping herself afloat in mid-air.

Before Fern could say anything, the turtle opened its beak and her mother's voice echoed through.

" _There's been an incident at the shop. Please hurry over if you can. Dad and I are on our way right now."_

In her just awoken state, it took a while for Fern to fully understand the message. But when the words finally sank in, she felt a shiver of apprehension and threw off the covers.

"Charlie!" she called down the hall, as her mother's Patronus vanished behind her. "Charlie! You awake?"

"Now I am," came her flatmate's faint, groggy voice. "What's up?"

"Can you send Launder a Patronus? It's a family emergency, I don't know if I'll be able to make it to the office on time."

"Is everything okay?" Charlie opened her bedroom door and peeked outside, her blonde hair a mess. Her expression was one of concern.

"I don't know. Something's happened at the shop, my mom asked me to go."

Charlie nodded. "I'll tell the boss. You want me to come?"

"It's fine. It's your day off," Fern said with a small smile. "Take a break."

"If you say so. Hope everything's okay, but I'm tellin' you," Charlie called as Fern scurried back to her room to change, "I'm sick of sending all your messages! I _hate_ my Patronus. Porcupines are so lame."

 _Thank Merlin for Charlotte Westernberg,_ Fern thought as she pulled on her clothes, almost tripping in the process. Charlie was possibly the only person in the world who could make Fern laugh whilst dealing with an unknown family situation.

Ten minutes later, Fern was out the door and into the cold. In hindsight, it might have been faster to ask Charlie to Apparate them there, but Magellanic Avenue was only a twenty-minute walk away; it took Fern half that time to jog the distance, and when she reached the secret brick wall hidden in a maze of deserted alleyways, she had to take a second to catch her breath.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Fern squared her shoulders (she'd never gotten used to this part) and walked straight through the wall. She felt that familiar sensation of passing under a waterfall before emerging completely dry on the other side. She blinked at the sight before her.

Magellanic Avenue had changed. Being New York's wizarding retail hotspot, it was renowned for its busy crowds around the clock. The scene now told a completely different tale: several windows were boarded up, or else cracked and broken; shelves stood empty and ransacked, objects discarded haphazardly. There was no crowd of shoppers, no leisurely window-shopping. The few people that were there looked wary and cautious, scuttling from shop to shop as though frightened they would be plucked from the open street.

It felt like a ghost town.

Breaking out of her reverie, Fern hurried down the street, made a left and meandered her way past the low-storied buildings. Finally, she spotted her mother and father at the front of the family shop, talking with a MACUSA employee Fern did not recognise. Her parents looked stricken, their expressions taut in disbelief. The display window was shattered, and the naked mannequins that normally wore her parents' handiwork lay on the ground, their limbs disjointed.

"What happened?" Fern asked breathlessly, when she reached her parents' side. "What's going on?"

"There's been a break-in," her mother said in a hollow voice, meeting Fern's eyes sadly.

"A break-in?" Fern repeated, dumbfounded. She turned to the MACUSA employee, a middle-aged man with a tired face and uncombed hair. "When? And how? We had wards set up here!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Holloway. We've had a high number of cases of looting during the last week, due to recent events," the man sighed, and Fern realised that he must be an Auror. "The criminals in question have been working in groups, possibly to overcome any magical protection placed over the shop."

"What did they take?" Fern looked back round at her parents, scared of the answer.

Her father put on a brave smile. "They took what was in the till and the safe box, plus a few valuables: rare furs, hides, jewellery. It's not everything. Most of our savings' still in the bank."

"But…but that's at least a couple thousand Dragots," Fern breathed, her heart sinking.

"It's a terrible situation," the Auror said in a sympathetic voice. "I promise we'll do our best to catch the culprits. In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Holloway, would you be so kind as to follow me to MACUSA headquarters? I'd like to record a formal statement and take your details for our case files. My colleagues will continue to investigate the scene of the crime."

As he said these words, Fern caught sight of movement within the shop. There were another two or three Aurors inspecting the damage inside, casting spells and talking to each other in low voices.

 _This isn't fair. This can't be happening._

"Of course, thank you," Fern's father said in a sigh. He turned to Fern. "You should go to work, sweetheart. We'll be okay."

"I'm coming with you," Fern replied stubbornly, barely catching the anger in her voice; she was almost trembling with it. It wasn't right. It wasn't right that her parents should have their hard work robbed from them, gone in the bat of an eyelid, especially after everything they had already been through. She couldn't help thinking about her father's demons. She didn't want this to be the final push that sent him back to that lonely pit. If only their world was in peace, and not threatened by the dark wizard hiding in their midst.

 _What do I do?_

Fern thread her arms around her parents and Apparated with them into the crushing darkness.

 **iii.**

 _January 12_ _th_ _, 1927_

"So, did you take it?"

"No."

"But you took it home."

"Yes, but I didn't _take_ it."

"Well then," Holloway said, reaching into her bag, "here's another to add to your collection."

Percival sighed as she placed the small glass bottle on his desk. "You're very persistent."

She gave him a knowing smile. "I thought you would've figured that one out by now."

They were back in his office, by Percival's request. He didn't think it was a good idea to be seen receiving Sleeping Draughts in public. There were enough rumours still circulating in the office as it was: speculation over his mental stability and his scolding by the President. He didn't need the added suspicions over his insomnia.

"Can I ask you a question?" Holloway asked, settling back in her chair.

"I daresay you'll find that you can."

"Do you think these sessions are helping?"

It was a valid question, one he hadn't particularly considered, and it caught him off guard. He usually pondered over their conversations in the aftermath, trying to decipher what she wanted to gain from his answers. He'd never actually taken a step back to see how she affected his wellbeing as the weeks slipped on by. Maybe he was afraid of finding out that her efforts hadn't worked (maybe this was the miracle remedy, for it all to stop). Maybe there was too much riding on this that he'd just pushed it to the back of his mind, where it sat laden under cobwebs and thick dust.

"I'm not sure how you mean."

"For example, do you feel relieved to be able to let go of your thoughts? Would you have kept it all to yourself otherwise?"

Percival pursed his lips for a moment. He knew where this was going. "I don't need _confidantes,_ if that's what you're implying."

"I know you're a man of secrets," Fern said gently. "And no doubt your job requires that. But everyone needs friends, Mr. Graves."

He scoffed, but deep down he was hating the unexpected turn of the conversation. "I don't suppose your next question is to ask how many friends I have?"

"If you wouldn't mind telling me, I'd be quite interested in knowing."

An uncomfortable weight leeched upon his gut, and he ran his finger along the edge of his chin to buy himself time. For all her merits, Holloway had a terrible habit of making him feel childish and strangely vulnerable. "It would be a stretch to call my colleagues 'friends'," he said, relieved to find that his voice came out in its natural stern tone. "Although I do give Booker Pinney my full trust, and Tina Goldstein, for that matter."

"Ah, I've met Miss Goldstein. She helped me find you at the park."

They both fell silent at the sudden tension in the air: it was the first time she had mentioned Grindelwald's escape since her apology. She had steered clear of the subject for a week, but now, Percival wondered if she intended to make him talk about that cursed day. He steeled himself, ready to deflect her questions. For some reason, he felt a cold go through him, and the hand in his lap clenched without her seeing.

"Yes, no doubt she was worried and wanted to find me, just as you were," Percival said at last, bridging the silence.

Holloway looked a little wrong-footed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you talk to her about your problems?"

"She tries to make me. I always end up finding reasons not to."

"And what are those reasons, Mr. Graves?"

He could've made up an excuse easily, but he realised that he did not enjoy lying to Holloway ( _though what does it matter,_ she _lied to_ you). Instead, he sighed—to indicate that he was not willing to oblige any further—and changed the subject. "What of you, Miss Holloway? Any worries plaguing your mind? I tire of being the only one sharing."

Holloway looked down at her notepad, and that was the only indication that she disapproved of his reluctance. "Well, I guess it's not a big concern for the Head of Law Enforcement, but my parents were robbed."

Percival's eyebrows drew up. "Robbed?"

"They own a shop in Magellanic Avenue, sell robes and other clothing. My dad is great with fabrics, and my mom does most of the designs," she told him with a thin exhale. "Someone broke into the shop on Monday, took quite a big sum of goods and money."

Even as Holloway spoke, a voice tugged at Percival's guilt, distracting him:

 _This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't chased Geoffrey Lamarche._

 _This wouldn't have happened if Grindelwald was behind bars._

 _This is all your fault._

"I'm sorry to hear that." He felt the back of his ears go warm; he hoped she wouldn't notice.

Holloway shook her head. "It's all right. Booker—I mean, Mr. Pinney told me he would look into it, so I'm sure everything will be just fine."

"You're in safe hands," Percival said, though he was surprised to find the words were a little stiff on his tongue. "He's a good man."

Holloway held his gaze, her head tilted gently to one side, like a curious bird. Against his will, he thought again of the way Booker had placed his hand on her back. He wondered how long they spent in each other's company, if they truly liked each other, if they talked about him in conspiring whispers over dinner. Percival could have asked—he wasn't afraid of confrontation—but the blue eyes boring into his continued to preoccupy his thoughts.

Holloway contemplated him for a second longer, then glanced down at her watch with the smallest of smiles and said, "Yes. Yes, he is."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's note: Ahhh hello again! I'm so sorry it's been forever since the last chapter, university has once again sapped the life out of me. :') But now that Christmas break is here my muse suddenly came back and I busted out some writing lol. Please enjoy this new chapter, thank you so much for your continued interest in the story! And last but not least, wishing you all a happy holiday! :D**

 **Disclaimer:** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **belongs to J. K. Rowling.**

 **Unearthed**

 **Chapter Ten**

 **i.**

 _January 13_ _th_ _, 1927_

It was slow progress, but the shop was finally starting to return to its former glory. The broken window had been replaced, and the mannequins had been repositioned into their usual poses. Any signs of damage on the inside had been reworked. Ironically, the shop felt new, as if it had just had a much-needed facelift rather than a troubling break-in.

Fern was in the storeroom at the back, reorganising the huge variety of fabrics her father had collected. Each was unique in terms of its texture, colour and even scent. Sometimes, she thought she could spend a whole afternoon going through each fabric and marvelling at its beauty.

"How're you doing?"

Fern jumped and looked over her shoulder. Booker was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in his favourite pinstriped suit. Fern felt a little flutter in her chest at the way he was looking at her.

"Good, thank you," she replied with a smile. She hauled the long roll of velvet off the floor and onto its respective shelf. "Just sorting out storage for my dad. The thieves left it in quite the mess."

"Couldn't you tidy everything with a spell or two?" Booker asked, his grey eyes scanning the piles of rolled up cloth by her feet.

Fern felt the back of her neck flush. "My dad prefers to handle the stuff by hand. In case a spell goes wrong and damages the fabric." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it certainly wasn't the whole truth either.

"I see." Booker pulled away from the doorframe and walked over to her side, the heels of his shoes clicking. "How are your parents, anyway? They holding up?"

"I think they just want to get the shop back up and running again. It'll help take their minds off things," Fern replied, noting the way Booker stood languidly before her, as though they were old friends catching up. She could smell fresh ink and cigarette smoke off his lapel. _He must be doing overtime,_ she thought, and felt yet another surge of gratitude that he had personally decided to oversee her parents' case.

"I've got my people working on it," Booker said, sweeping his brown hair away from his forehead. "One of the crooks dropped a slip of parchment during the raid. I'm hoping we can track it down and go from there."

Fern placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you again, Booker. I really appreciate it."

Booker flashed her one of his toothy grins. "No worries. I guess it's one of the perks of dating an Auror."

The tone of his voice had been light and joking, but nonetheless it made Fern tense up slightly. _Dating._ The word sounded off; it belonged on the tongues of much younger people. And yet, she had been meeting Booker exclusively for almost two weeks now, getting coffee or dinner or hanging back after her sessions with Graves to talk. It was a routine she had slipped into rather easily, but not without noticing. It just hadn't occurred to her that that was how Booker saw her: a date.

" _You're a Squib."_

Would he become like Graves if he found out what she really was? Fern chewed her lip and forced herself to speak; Booker was gazing at her expectantly, a fond smile plastered over his roguish face. "I guess that makes me a lucky gal."

Apparently it was the right answer. Booker chuckled and made a funny movement like he was about to touch her face (his elbow crooked, his fingers lilting up) when they both heard approaching footsteps behind them.

"Ah, there you are," said Fern's father, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as Fern took a step back from Booker. "I see you've found some company."

"I just wanted to check on you all, make sure everything's all right," Booker offered before Fern could speak. "But I should get going. They need me back at the office."

"Of course," Fern's father replied. "Thank you for dropping by."

"Not to worry. So," Booker added, glancing back down at Fern with a flicker of a smile, "I'll see you around."

"See you around," Fern echoed, smiling back. She watched as Booker left the room, his footsteps fading away.

"Well now, isn't he a proper fellow," her father murmured, a hand scratching his chin. "They didn't make them like that back in my day. How long have you two been seeing each other?"

"It's nothing serious, Dad," Fern laughed, shaking her head.

"You ought to reconsider," he advised, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "A guy like that doesn't stay single for long. Better make a move before it's too late."

Fern rolled her eyes. "I've got it under control." And then it struck her: why was her father in such a good mood? Considering that their family had just lost a thousand and nine hundred Dragots overnight, it was surprising that he had such a wide grin on his face. "Did something happen that I don't know about? You're oddly jolly."

"I was just about to tell you before I got distracted by your new friend," he said with a chuckle. "Your mom just got back from the bank. Apparently someone's deposited three thousand Dragots into our account!"

Fern blinked. "What? From where?"

"We don't know. It was an anonymous deposit."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Fern said, frowning. "Who would want to just give us that much money? Are you sure it wasn't…some kind of mistake?"

Her father nodded. "Your mother double and triple-checked, they insisted it was legitimate. Besides," he added with a laugh, "if it was a mistake I think the bank would've told us by now!"

Unable to grapple with this new development, Fern could only bite her tongue and nod absent-mindedly. It was strange that this anonymous donation had come so soon after the robbery. She continued to dwell on it even after her father had left the room. The fact that the money was nearly double of what had been stolen made it seem like they had some sort of guardian angel watching over them ( _a very rich one, at that_ ). But only a handful of people knew about the incident. So who was this mysterious benefactor? Fern quickly listed all the people who were involved, crossing off their names in her mind one by one…

 _Of course._ There could only be one individual who would have done such a benevolent thing in total secrecy, like a saint hiding in the shadows. Fern didn't want to be right, and yet the more she thought about it, the more nauseous she felt. There didn't seem to be any other plausible explanation.

And then, quite suddenly, the anger set in.

Fern let out a frustrated grunt and set the matter away, for now.

 **ii.**

 _December 7_ _th_ _, 1926_

Weak. He had never felt so weak in his entire life.

Even lying on the floor was exhausting. The sheer effort of filling his lungs with the foul-smelling air left him depleted. The blackness felt heavy, pressing down on his bones, preserving him like a fossil. It would be his mark on this earth. The runt of the litter, the one that does not survive. The darkness was so solid he could not tell if he was awake or sleeping, if up was up or if up was down. Everything was everything and he was nothing.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed (if it did at all). Sometimes, he would shut his swollen eyelids, and it would be milliseconds or years before he awoke afresh into the void. He would cry out, but recently (or was it years ago?) his voice had dried, reduced to nothing but a thin, whimpering croak. It was better to let his voice go to waste; at least then he would not be able to talk to the shadows, which would chide and scare him. How afraid he was of the shadows.

You see, not even the pain was as bad as the fear. The cramps came when he least expected, ripping at his stomach, causing his whole shell to spasm in shock. Afterwards, he would lie on his side, curled up in a ball and clutching himself, the sweat slicking his forehead. And he would cry. No, the pain was not the worst. It was the fear of being taken and not missed.

But now, he did not even have energy to spill tears. He simply lay there, the forgotten skeleton, seeing nothing…

He heard voices. _No…_ He thought the shadows had stopped talking. Why were they returning? His limbs twitched in an attempt to scurry away, like a cockroach underneath the cupboards. _Please don't hurt me—please don't hurt me!_

Then—blindingly, piercingly—black became white. Searing hot light burned his retina and flesh. He cowered at the heavens, arms trembling as he lifted them above his head to protect himself. The purity of everything scorched him: the fresh air, the white sun, the holy voices. It was like being born into a crueller world. He screamed for the angels not to touch him. Please, it hurt too much. He wasn't ready.

" _It's him! He's in here!"_

" _Somebody get a Healer right now!"_

" _Mr. Graves, are you okay?"_

Percival screamed again, but his voice had finally rotted. So his saviours lifted him from hell, and he went, silently.

 **iii.**

 _January 14_ _th_ _, 1927_

Fridays were now a thing of the past in the Auror department. Each time Fern walked past the desks on the way to Graves' office, there was always the usual turmoil and sea of worried faces. In a way, the scene altered her mood even before she entered the office. Perhaps she should disengage herself from the on-going hunt for Grindelwald, for Graves' sake.

But today was different. Fern was already unsettled by the time she arrived at MACUSA Headquarters, her eyes blindly sweeping the grand entrance hall before heading for the elevators. She knew she would have to be careful with her words, but at the same time she wanted to make her point clear.

Same elevator chime, same cold corridor. Before she knew it, Fern was standing in front of Graves' door (recently she had found herself dreaming of that very door, of how she felt before she took the handle and stepped inside). Behind her, the room was humming with busy Aurors and the flicking of parchment.

 _Knock knock._

"Come in."

Fern walked into the office and closed the door. Graves was looking up from his files once again. She had just about memorised the way he reacted when she approached: the raising of his dark eyebrows, the leaning back in his chair, the slight part of his mouth, as if it was habit for him to speak first, except he rarely did so when it came to Fern. Apparently he preferred for her to lead their conversations.

"Good afternoon," Fern greeted, sitting opposite his desk as he did the usual Vanishing of his files. "Before we start, I need to talk to you about something separate."

Graves regarded her with his cool, unwavering stare. "Let's hear it."

"Well, I'm sorry for being so forward, but my parents and I can't accept your money."

Fern waited, but all Graves did was blink and reply, "I don't follow."

"I know it was you who deposited that money anonymously into my parents' account."

"Then how could you possibly know for sure?" She could hear a hint of a challenge in his voice now. "If it was an anonymous deposit?"

This was the difficult part, the part that could hurt him. "I have my reasons."

Surprisingly, the corner of his mouth lifted. After a beat, she figured out why. She was behaving like he had done during their many sessions: defiant and difficult. "Is that so." He sounded like he was mocking her.

Fern sighed, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "Please forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I feel like I owe it to the both of us to be honest. I know it was you, Mr. Graves, because of your guilty conscience. I can see how you're torturing yourself about letting Lamarche and Grindelwald escape. You felt responsible for the robbery, and it would be so easy for you to send three thousand Dragots into my parents' account, just like that. You didn't even bother checking with Booker how much was stolen, because the number doesn't matter to someone like you."

Fern paused to breathe, wondering if Graves would react. Was he going to ridicule her again? Tell her that she was falsely accusing him on made-up grounds? Their eyes met. His were as stony as ever, but he gave an almost imperceptible nod that she took to mean: _go on._

"You wanted to help my parents in order to fix your guilty conscience over Grindelwald. But I think there's more to it. I think…I think you sent the money to make up for the fact that you insulted me. Don't think that I haven't noticed your inability to apologise for that incident. I know it must be hard for you, but I didn't think you would use _money_ in place of an apology, or to make yourself feel less guilty about insulting me." Fern breathed in sharply. "My family doesn't need pity money."

A swelling silence followed the end of her speech. Fern sat there, once again feeling like she had crossed the line. Her heart was beating fast in her chest, either with pent-up anger or nervousness, she didn't know. It always seemed to come to this. There was a fundamental difference between them, and in a way, its presence saddened her.

"Well," Graves said suddenly, making Fern jump, "I'm impressed by your powers of deduction, Miss Holloway. Even some of our trainee Aurors aren't as skilled as you in that regard."

Fern bristled at his comment. _So Squibs aren't even supposed to_ think _as well as wizards, is that right?_ By some miracle, she held her tongue and instead returned his gaze. Graves' expression was unreadable, which was strange, because usually she could read him freely. Then, Graves did something Fern had not anticipated. He leaned forward, clasped his hands on top of his desk and cleared his throat. "All right. I'm sorry, Miss Holloway, for insulting you. I should never have belittled you for being a Squib. I was wrong."

Fern was so stunned that she just stared at him. Graves seized the opportunity to continue.

"And you're right, I did deposit that money into your parents' bank account. I felt that it was the least I could do. But if you refuse to accept it, I understand."

When had he become so empathetic? Or had he always been like this, but had simply refused to show anyone (even her)? _Of course_ the world couldn't know about Percival Graves' heart. It had not been her intention to make him apologise, but suddenly a weight lifted from her chest, and she no longer felt quite so small in his office any more. The change was small but oddly liberating. And moving. "I—thank you," Fern replied hastily. "It really does mean a lot."

Graves nodded. "It was overdue."

Fern smiled for the first time that afternoon. "Let's put it behind us. I'll transfer the money back to you tomorrow morning."

"But how will you explain it to your parents?" Graves was also smiling, but there was something devious about it.

"What do you mean?"

Graves was smirking now. "You would be violating your confidentiality agreement if you told them why I had sent the money, and why you think they should return it."

Fern blinked. _Shit._ It was true, she couldn't possibly tell her parents what she had just spelled out to Graves. Those were his private thoughts, his internal rationalisations, and they belonged in the confines of his office. As his Hearken, it was her duty to keep his secrets safe. And just like that, against her will, Fern felt the heat rising in her cheeks.

 _Oh Merlin._

"I'll find a different way to explain," she said shortly, flustered. She couldn't believe she was actually _blushing_ in front of Graves. Admittedly, it was rather embarrassing that she had just lectured him for ten minutes straight, only for Graves to apologise and point out this little detail that she had completely missed. It made her feel unbearably pretentious and wrong-footed. Fern tried to push the thought aside. All she wanted was for the colour in her cheeks to go away as quickly as possible.

"I'm sure you will," Graves replied, breaking her out of her reverie. He hadn't moved since his apology, but she thought he was looking at her a little differently. His eyes seemed lighter, less scrutinising. Perhaps he was amused at having successfully teased her. _Oh well,_ she thought in defeat. The encounter could have gone worse. If Graves was happy because of a small slip-up on her part, then so be it.

Fern took a deep breath before hitching a smile back on her face. She was relieved to find that it was a genuine one. "Thank you for your vote of confidence." She took out her notepad and quill. "Now, I think it's _your_ turn to talk, Mr. Graves. Have you taken any of the Sleeping Draughts yet?"

Graves smirked and relaxed into his chair. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
